


Just Like You

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Anxiety, Bad Parenting, Gen, Guilt, Injury, Nightmares, Platonic Bed-sharing, Violence, Vomiting, really a whole host of bad stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-16 01:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Robin nearly kills a man on patrol. This is a story about repercussions.(This story is completed, and will be posted over the next few days.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Совсем как ты](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598152) by [timmy_failure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timmy_failure/pseuds/timmy_failure)



> This fic is years old, and, if I were to write it now there are a lot of things I would do differently. In spite of this, what's posted here is identical to the original posts on tumblr. 
> 
> If you have any concerns or questions, particularly regarding the tags, please feel free to send me an ask on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/ask)

Robin is suffocating. 

Blood is oozing down his side from a gash in his uniform, and the weight– the huge, choking weight– on his torso is making his ribs creak dangerously. 

But that doesn’t matter.

Because Robin is suffocating. 

He’s in a filthy back alley in Gotham, head pressed uncomfortably into the cold brick behind him. Batman must have picked up his distress signal by now, but the thug’s thick fingers pressing on his windpipe are making it difficult to tell time. It might have been a few seconds, but it feels like it’s been days. 

Reflexive tears are stinging his eyes under the mask. His legs are pinned uselessly beneath the man. His right arm is jammed painfully under his hips. Even if he could– but no, he’d dislocate it. He’d still be useless. 

His left hand, flung out to the side, unable to fend off the man, fumbles on the ground amongst the trash. 

He’s seeing black spots. He can hear gurgles and whines and dimly registers that they’re his. He lungs are bursting for air. His vision is going darker.

His hand scrabbles, gropes against the pavement. And finds–

Good old Gotham.

If he had the air in his lungs, he might have laughed.

Through his narrowing scope of vision, with that peculiar sense of calm that immediately follows the panic of impending death, Robin’s eyes slide half-shut. His follows the line of the man’s arms, biceps straining visibly against this jacket, up to the protruding tendons in his throat, the foam against his snarling mouth. It would have made a good photo, Tim thinks. Honest.

Then, with one of those moments that strike, sudden and rare, all he can think about is his predecessor. And how Batman didn’t make it in time. 

His eyes close.

Using the very last of his strength, he brings his left hand up as quickly as he can, thrusting the knife into his assailant. 

Then everything goes black. 

-

It must only be a few seconds later when Robin comes to, but his first conscious breath is like fire down his throat. Gasping and coughing for air, he realises faintly that everything hurts. And he’s alive. 

His eyes open and he tries to sit up. His throat rasping as he takes in air, he realises, with sudden nausea, that he is still pinned beneath the man. He’s slick with blood. 

Repulsed, he shoves the much heavier man off him and scrambles upright, leaning heavily against the wall. He drops the knife to the dirty pavement and shudders, looking down at his bloodied front. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on breathing.

Naturally, this is the moment Batman arrives. Imposing as always, he stands in the mouth of the alleyway. Robin is nearly doubled over, one hand loose at his throat, still coughing for air. 

The Batman takes in the bloodied knife and the prone form on the floor. 

He barely glances at Tim.

He turns the man over and checks his breathing, shifts his jacket to get a better look at the wound in his side. He slings the man over his shoulder and stands. When he does speak, his voice is quiet, intense. Furious.

“He needs immediate medical attention.” 

Robin straightens and tries to speak. His voice is rough and cracked, and it feels like broken glass. “Batman–” 

“Wait for me here,” Batman growls, and disappears from the alleyway. 

Tim sinks to a crouch, where he retches a few times. He wants to wipe his mouth, but his gloves are soaked with blood. He wants to be sick again. 

He presses his forehead into the brick beside him and waits.

\----


	2. Chapter 2

—

  
  
It’s later, back at the cave, and Tim is shirtless, stretched out on a gurney. His gloves, mask and cape, bloodied and worn, were whisked away immediately. He feels naked and small, oddly like a recalcitrant child.  
  
His hands are shaking badly and he shoves them under his thighs to hide it, blinking tears out of his eyes.   
  
He hopes Batman doesn’t notice. But then, he is the World’s Greatest Detective.   
  
It’s one of the worst parts of being the Boy Wonder, he thinks. Laying on the icy slab, shivering in the early hours of the morning while Alfred ministers stitches, with Batman, inscrutable, a few feet away. 

He tenses under the butler’s gloved hands and tries not to flinch. He has a pounding headache, and each breath comes out as a rasp through his damaged throat. Tim does his best to stay still as Alfred sutures, staring at the lights above him.  
  
He hears the very deliberate sound of Batman’s cowl being set down on the desk. Tim doesn’t look over, but tries unsuccessfully to suppress a particularly violent shiver.   
  
“He’s in surgery. Still critical.”   
  
The pain in his throat is almost unbearable as he tries to speak. “Bruce, it–”  
  
He hears a grunt, then the sound of the door closing. Bruce is gone.   
  
Once Alfred finishes stitching the 6-inch gash down his side, he sticks a large square of gauze over the wound and steps back. When Tim finally sits up and swings his legs off the gurney, Alfred squeezes his shoulder bracingly. “Now, Master Tim,” he says, stoic as ever. “I expect you’ll rather want to get cleaned up. Apply this to the bruises on your throat afterward. I’ll be sure to bring you up some tea shortly.”  
  
Tim accepts the ointment and closes his eyes, says, “No thank you. To the tea.”  
  
Alfred looks at him doubtfully as he slides off the gurney. He can barely remember the last time he felt so… defeated. It feels like he’s been hit by a truck. It startles him when Alfred speaks again. He sounds hesitant. “If you’re sure, Master Tim.”   
  
Tim, staring at the cowl that faces him on the desk, takes a minute to respond. “Goodnight, Alfred. Thank you.”   
  
And Tim barely remembers making his way up to the main house, but he knows already he’ll be sleeping in Dick’s old room. A habit left from when he was a little younger, and newer to the position of Robin, he used to sneak into his older brother’s bed, empty though it often was, and let the comforting smell and surrounding warmth lull him into dreamless sleep. It’s been a few months since the last time, but Tim can’t bring himself to feel ashamed. He just wants sleep. 

First he grabs an oversized t-shirt and some pajama pants and stumbles, exhausted, into the bathroom. He stands under the hot spray, scrubbing his skin, for fourteen and a half minutes exactly. (He had learned, early on in his Robin career, that after particularly difficult nights on patrol, any longer than 16 minutes in the bathroom was cause for Alfred to check in). He puts on the clean clothes and towels his hair briefly, then slathers some cream liberally over his throat.  
  
He leaves the en suite adjoining his room and walks across the hall, into Dick’s. Tim is almost disappointed at how clean it is; that means Dick hasn’t been here in awhile. Tim rubs his eyes and sits on the edge of the immaculately made bed. Experimentally, he prods at the bruises on his throat and sighs. He feels nauseous.   
  
“Evening, Timmy.”   
  
Tim spins, startled. His voice comes out as a croak. “Dick? What are you doing here?”   
  
“You make it sound like I never come visit you,” he smiles, handing Tim a cup of tea and ruffling his still-wet hair.   
  
“Alfred?” Tim frowns at the tea, though he already knows the answer.  
  
“That old man is a bully,” Dick says seriously, stripping down to a t-shirt and his boxers. “You should know better than to refuse him.” He slings most of his clothes onto a chair in the corner when he notices Tim watching him silently. He smiles encouragingly. “Drink up, little bird. I’ll just be a minute or two.” And, humming slightly under his breath, Dick proceeds to the bathroom to brush his teeth.   
  
Tim crosses his legs underneath him, dutifully drinking the tea. It feels surprisingly pleasant against his throat, so he keeps drinking, letting his eyelids droop.   
  
After a few minutes, Dick emerges from the bathroom and takes the mostly-drunk cup of tea from his little brother’s hand, setting it on the bedside table. He drags the teenager off the bed to throw back the covers, then pads toward the door to turn off the light.   
  
Wordlessly, the brothers climb into the bed, the only light coming through the open door to the hallway. It’s a few long minutes before Dick breaks the silence. He rolls on to his side to face Tim and sighs. Reaching out to trail his fingers gently over the bruises at Tim’s pale throat, he says, “Rough night, huh?”  
  
“Mhm,” Tim affirms, eyelids fluttering closed.   
  
Dick is silent for another moment before he shifts his hand up the teen’s cheek, caressing the dark circles under his eye with a gentle thumb. “Wake me up if you wanna talk about it, k Timmy?”  
  
Tim nods and Dick, seemingly satisfied, closes his eyes and lets his hand fall back to the sheets, resting lightly against his brother’s. It isn’t long before Dick’s breathing evens out into sleep, and Tim follows soon after.   
  
-  
  
And in the night, when Tim wakes up with blood down his front and thick fingers on his throat, he sits up and panics, struggles to remember how to breathe.   
  
He feels Dick’s warm hand tug at the fabric of his shirt, bringing him back, and manages to drag in a rasping breath. Dick is squinting up at him, rumpled from sleep, mouth curled down at one side. “Hey,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s over now. C'mere, you’re safe.” He holds out his arms.  
  
Too tired to protest, the Boy Wonder crawls beside his older brother, pressing close. Dick’s hands are big and gentle as they pull Tim closer still, tracing lightly down his spine.   
  
There is a long silence. Then, “It was an accident,” Tim whispers against Dick’s collarbone. He sounds young and impossibly sad.   
  
“I know it was,” Dick murmurs, again and again until they both fall back asleep.   
  
–


	3. Chapter 3

-

“Hey Timmy,” is the first thing he’s aware of, Dick’s lips tickling the back of his neck. He sounds marginally awake. “I think I can smell pancakes.”   
  
Tim burrows deeper into the bed, hoping Dick will let him sleep. Of course, that hope is short lived. “Tim,” a prod. “Ti- _im_. C'mon, am I having a stroke, or are my Alfred senses really tingling?”   
  
So Dick’s definitely awake.   
  
Tim shrugs off his older brother’s arm, ignoring the squawk of protest, and sits up. He rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn. Everything hurts, but he can definitely smell pancakes. “No stroke,” he starts to say, but the words catch in his swollen throat like knives, and his eyes prickle reflexively at the pain. He gasps instinctively, one hand rising to rest against the bruises.   
  
“That bad, huh?” Dick says sympathetically, sitting up. “At least pancakes are soft… Alfie really does think of everything.” He gets out of bed with a groan, popping his shoulders and twisting until his back cracks. He starts to speak again as he touches his toes. “Well, I guess this means you’re off school for a while, unless you develop a sudden proclivity for turtlenecks.”  
  
Tim lets his eyelids droop and flops back to the pillow.   
  
“Hey now,” Dick chuckles, straightening to grab a skinny wrist. “Come on, there’ll be none of that.” He pulls the teen out of bed and into a loose hug. “You’re so compliant when you’re sleepy, Timbo,” he says fondly, as Tim sags against him. “With your scarecrow hair and your spaceship pants.”   
  
Tim whines into Dick’s shirt ( _-he loves these pyjamas_ ), lets him run his fingers through the mess of dark hair. When he pulls back, hair sufficiently neatened, Tim seems slightly more aware. Dick beams down at him.  
  
“Teeth brush,” Tim says, voice a hoarse whisper, pointing over his shoulder in the direction of his room.   
  
Dick winces. “Sure thing, little bro, just… don’t talk for a bit. It sounds painful.”   
  
Tim hums his agreement, with a half smile born from a grimace, and slips back into his own room.   
-  
  
Walking toward the kitchen, he hears Alfred murmuring disapprovingly, then Dick’s significantly louder reply; “What, so I was supposed to say nothing?”   
  
“I don’t recall saying anything of the kind, Master Richard,” Alfred is saying, pointedly, when Tim enters. He sits at the counter beside Dick, where Alfred has already set 3 perfectly round pancakes, neatly stacked, with the syrup jug beside his plate. Just how he likes it. He smiles.   
  
“Good morning, Master Tim,” Alfred says, setting a glass of milk in front of him.   
  
He raises a hand in greeting.   
  
Then, Tim painstakingly pours the syrup over the back of his spoon, starting to distribute it (– _perfectly–_ ) evenly over his pancakes. It takes a while, but it’s definitely worth the trouble. He ignores the way Dick stares openly (and ignores Alfred shushing him, when he tries to interrupt). Finally, he frowns, examining the pancakes from several angles. Satisfied, he sets the spoon carefully on a napkin and replaces the jug on the table. Then he starts to eat, pretending not to notice the heat rising in his face under Dick’s amused gaze.   
  
He’s only a few mouthfuls in when the comfortable silence in the kitchen becomes oppressive with Bruce’s presence.  
  
Tim flinches violently at the sight of him, rattling the cutlery on the countertop and choking on his breakfast. He gulps half his milk to clear his throat and coughs a few times.  
  
“Morning, boys,” Bruce says, flatly, and there’s something in the way he  _doesn’t look at Dick_  that Tim can tell is bad. Dick’s shoulders go tense, but he still smiles with something which, at another time, might look like friendliness. They had argued, then.  
  
“Hey Bruce?” Tim rasps.  
  
“I’m not at home for breakfast today, Alfred, I’m running short on time,” says Bruce, over the top of him. He drinks some coffee over the sink and finally meets Tim’s gaze. “I’ll be home this evening.”  
  
“But–”  
  
“I can talk to you then, Tim. I’m late,” he says, setting the mug on the sink and making for the door. He pauses, briefly, says flatly, “He’s critical but stable in the ICU. I’ll let you know if something changes.” He doesn’t turn. “Dick, always a pleasure.”   
  
Dick scowls at the sarcasm, his lips colourless and pressed in a hard line.   
  
Tim stares blankly at his plate, no longer hungry. Bruce had been so cold. His breath catches and he tries not to choke on the panic.  _Surely he didn’t think–?_  
  
It’s a few moments before he feels a warm thumb stroke his hand. “Tim,” Dick says, all traces of anger gone as he gently pries Tim’s fork out of a white-knuckled, trembling hand. “Don’t worry, okay? He needs time to process. And you know how he gets about work.”   
  
Tim meets Dick’s bright blue, sincere gaze. He nods, unconvinced, and squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn't–” he croaks, and Dick shushes him.  
  
“I know, Tim. So does he, really.” There is silence, while he traces a finger over the veins in Tim’s wrist and frowns. Then, “Are you going to be okay today? I can stick around–”   
  
Tim shakes his head. “Go,” he says. “You’ll be late.”   
  
Dick’s frown deepens. It doesn’t suit him.   
  
“Honestly,” Tim says hoarsely, painfully. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t serious about fighting crime.”   
  
Dick stares at him for a long moment. “Timmy,” he says finally. “If you never crack a smile, how am I supposed to tell when you’re joking?”   
  
At that Tim does smile, with a bit of teeth in it, and Dick stands and yanks him half off the stool into his arms. Hugging him with that peculiar blend of fierce and gentle, Dick tells him, “See you soon, little bro.” He pulls back far enough to kiss Tim firmly on the forehead. “Call me if you need me, huh? Or, ah, text is good too.” When the teen nods, Dick adds, “Don’t let him bother you– you did the right thing.”  
  
On the way out of the kitchen, Dick approaches Alfred at the sink. He taps the old man on the shoulder, swooping to kiss him on a wrinkled cheek when he turns, as unselfconscious as ever. Then he smiles. “Thank you for breakfast, Alfie.”  
  
“It is both my duty and my pleasure, Master Richard.” The man raises an eyebrow, says, “It is a rather nice feeling knowing you’re eating appropriately for once.”   
  
“Alfred!” Dick says, wounded, and Tim snickers from the counter. 

  
  
And later, when Tim is rinsing his plate and putting it in the dishwasher, he says, “Alfred, I’ll be in the Cave.”  
  
Because maybe, if he works  _extra hard_ , Bruce won’t consider him such a disappointment. 

–

 


	4. Chapter 4

–  
Bruce doesn’t take him on patrol the next night, or the one after that.   
  
Tim spends his days hunched in the Cave, doing research and typing up case reports and generally trying to make himself helpful. ( _–and it isn’t until Alfred brings him another cup of tea that Tim realises he’s been down here for more than 12 hours and his eyes are blurring so badly he can barely read the screen– but he’ll do anything so Bruce can stand to look at him again–_ )  
  
Tonight, optimistically, Tim has put on his costume when he goes to meet Bruce in the Cave. He’s barely been home since it happened, but Tim isn’t sure if his mentor is actively avoiding him, or if he really has just been busy.   
  
He swallows at the door, feels the prickle of sweat under his gloves. He smooths back his hair in a ( _–weak–_ ) nervous gesture and squares his shoulders. Then he descends the stairs.  
  
“Not tonight, Tim,” says Bruce, without turning around. Tim drops his gaze to the floor and leans against the banister, a muscle working in his jaw. “Fine,” he says, as tonelessly as he can manage.   
  
Bruce glances back at him. “Maybe tomorrow,” he says.   
  
“You don’t mean that,” says Tim, surprising himself.   
  
Bruce straightens from the console, turning around very slowly. “Excuse me?”  
  
“If you don’t intend on letting me patrol anymore, at least have the decency to say so."  Bruce is staring at him and Tim’s face is hot and his heart is beating painfully ( _–oh my God he is saying this to_ Bruce _, why can’t he just stop–_ ) but now he’s on a roll; "You know, if it takes just one stupid slip-up, one  _mistake_  for our so-called partnership to fall apart, then I guess you’ve never really trusted me.”   
  
Bruce’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m not going to have this conversation with you, Tim.”  
  
Tim laughs and it’s sharp, bitter. “There’s a surprise. Bruce Wayne choosing ‘passive-aggressive’ over actual conflict resolution.”  
  
Bruce goes to speak, warning in his eyes– and Tim  _interrupts_. His heart is hammering so fast he worries he might pass out. But he raises his voice over the thundering of his own heartbeat.   
  
“It  _was_  a mistake, you know. I didn’t want to hurt that guy, I swear to God I didn’t,” Tim continues, his throat tightening. “But I also didn’t want to be the second Robin you had to lose. I didn’t want that on my conscience.” Tim works enough saliva into his mouth to swallow. “That’s what it came down to, Bruce. It was him or me. And I made the right call.”  
  
Bruce’s expression changes. Minute shifts, until it’s something unrecognisable. Before Tim can even guess at deciphering it, Bruce turns back to the monitor. “Just… not tonight, Tim.”  
  
When Tim doesn’t move, stands stock still at the foot of the stairs, Bruce speaks again. “You can go now.”  
  
Tim lets out a slow, rattling breath. “Screw you, Bruce.” Calm. Sincere.  
  
And he turns and walks out.   
  
He ignores the overwhelming silence that should be Bruce calling him back.   
  
-  
  
If he were anyone else, he would have stuffed some of his belongings in a bag and left.  
  
As he’s Tim Drake, however, he empties his schoolbag neatly onto his desk, then sets it on the bed. Dialling Dick with one hand, he slides off his gloves, then boots. Barefoot, he moves over to the wardrobe, where he selects a few nondescript items of clothing (deliberately avoiding the ones he  _knows_  Bruce has bugged, because okay yeah he’s the World’s Greatest Detective but that’s no reason to make it easy for him), and tosses them onto the bed.   
  
“Hello admirer,” Dick’s voice, warm and amused. “I’m not in just now, but–”  
  
Tim hits redial.   
  
He folds the clothes carefully, but they’re not right so he unfolds them and folds them again ( _much better_ ). He packs them into the empty schoolbag, along with two carefully chosen books and some overdue homework.   
  
“Hello admirer, I–” Tim hangs up and drops the phone onto the bed. He runs a han– he  _catches_  himself before he can run a hand through his hair, because goodness knows he’s followed enough of his weak stupid  _human_  instincts tonight already and oh  _god_  what did he just do?  
  
He’s shaking with rage and something else as he strips off the ( _–his–_ ) Robin suit, substituting it for his warmest civilian clothes. Gotham is cold at night. He adds a cap and some trainers, slinging the bag over his shoulder and turning off the lights.  
  
He leaves the suit folded at the end of the bed. 

–


	5. Chapter 5

–  
  
  
Tim wakes suddenly and silently, with the practice that comes from working with someone so paranoid as Batman. His eyes are still closed, his breathing still even– his heart barely skipped a beat. Only here, now, he is completely aware of his circumstances, hyperaware of every shift and change in the air.   
  
There’s someone here.   
  
The muscles in Tim’s fingers contract, minutely, bracing around phantom batarangs. He takes another moment, a split second, to feel sure of the position of his pocket knife before he’s rolling upright to lunge, lightning-fast, at his would-be attacker.   
  
“Whoa whoa, Tim!”   
  
He freezes, knife-point resting on the soft skin of a throat. The intruder lowers a defensive arm, teeth showing in a feral grin, and says, “Dude. You could’ve just said ‘hello’.”   
  
Tim’s eyes widen. “Superboy?”   
  
“Yeah, Rob, it’s me,” the meta says. Then, “Wanna do me a favour and drop the knife? Kinda afraid of making any sudden moves here, bud.”   
  
Tim complies but doesn’t back off. “Why didn’t you just wake me?” he demands, less leader and more best friend who just woke up.  
  
Kon raises his hands, palms-out. “I was about to, yeesh. I was trying to figure out how to do it without alerting your Bat Emergency Attack signal.”   
  
“That worked well for you,” Tim says drily, and finally takes a step back, crossing his arms. “Want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”  
  
“I was about to ask you the same thing. You know the Bat has some pretty sweet digs, right? And you’re slumming it in this… place,” Kon says, looking around and wrinkling his nose.   
  
Tim shrugs, silhouetted against the window. “It has a roof. It’s relatively secluded. It provides me with ample warning if someone tries to sneak up on me.”   
  
“You ever thought about going into real estate?” Kon asks, at the same time as Tim says,   
  
“And you still haven’t answered my question.”   
  
“Dude, none of those were close to an explanation as to why you’re sleeping in some dodgy Gotham warehouse instead of at home,” Kon says, hands on hips. Meeting his best friend’s gaze, his hands drop to his sides. He looks uncharacteristically hesitant when he asks, “He kick you out?”  
  
“I kicked myself out,” says Tim. “Preemptively.” Unnecessarily, he adds, “We fought.” He would never usually be so upfront, even with Kon, but he’s exhausted, sore from sleeping in the cold on a hard floor, and he gets a gut-sinking feeling whenever he tries to think about the future.   
  
Kon, usually oblivious, is looking at him appraisingly, and for one of those rare moments, Tim feels as though the kryptonian is looking right through him. To change the subject, and also because he still wants to know, he says, “Your turn.”   
  
Kon shrugs. “You called me. Talking in your sleep, I guess.”  
  
Tim frowns. “I don’t usually–” he begins, and breaks off with a scowl. It’s a goddamn stress response.   
  
“Anyway,” the super says cheerfully. “Must’ve been a nightmare or something, you sounded scared as hell. I thought you were on patrol, so I was gonna heroically leap into the fray and save your skinny ass.”  
  
The smaller teen stares for a moment then lowers his gaze, tries to sound nonchalant. “Well, sorry for the trouble. And, y'know, thanks.” He pauses. “It’s the thought that really counts in ass-saving.”   
  
Kon doesn’t laugh.   
  
He glances up after a moment, sees Kon’s stare and raised eyebrows in the pale moonlight. Tim musters up a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes (he misses his mask). “Sorry I interrupted your night, Kid. But as you can see, there is no fray. I don’t need any assistance, so you can–”  
  
But Kon’s already picking up his backpack and stuffing his book back inside (muttering “you’re such a nerd” as he does). He slings it over his shoulder and steps closer to Tim.   
  
“C'mon. You aren’t sleeping here."    
  
Tim knows the look Kon’s giving him, and he’s too tired to stand his ground right now. He gives a tiny sigh and drops his shoulders and Kon smiles and drags him out the door.   
  
-  
  
They’re somewhere up in the dark clouds, Kon’s hand warm and loose on his hip. Neither of them speak. For once, it seems, Kon appreciates the value of silence.   
  
Tim is grateful, in an abstract way, but he’s too lost in his thoughts to go into it much further. He’s tired, weary deep in his bones, but his head is whirling with so many (–scenarios, disasters, what-ifs, batmanbatsdadbruce pleasedon'tsendmeaway–)thoughts, he feels he may never sleep again. He doesn’t want to, can’t, apologize (Bruce doesn’t want his apologies, that much is clear), but without Bruce… he’s nothing.   
  
He realizes that he’s shivering, has been for a while. Kon seems to notice it too, giving a guilty start and drawing him closer, an arm tight across his back.  
  
"Shit, dude, I didn’t even think,” he says. “I can fly lower if you want?”   
  
“Don’t bother,” Tim tells him, but does press a bit closer, because Kon is a goddamn radiator. “Civvies aren’t as insulated as the uniform.”  
  
Some indeterminate amount of time later, Kon’s whispering, “Dude, are you asleep?”  
  
Tim pinches his side. Hard.   
  
“Okay okay! You’re being more creepy quiet than usual is all, and you stopped moving. Anyway, should just be another couple minutes, hold tight.”   
  
Silence.  
  
“Kon,” Tim says, after a few moments. “Are you seriously hugging me right now?” Kon’s arms had shifted, gradually, to wrap around him completely, and his head is tucked neatly under the super’s chin.   
  
There’s a pause. It’s only a little awkward.   
  
“You just… you look really sad!” Kon says defensively. “And you’re all… cold and shit. Like, I don’t think you get how pathetic you look right now. I’m talking kicked puppy, Rob.” And then, indignant, like he can’t believe he didn’t say this first, “An’ we’re best friends, I can hug you whenever I want!”   
  
“Do you want me to pinch you again,” Tim says, not a question. Against his better judgement, he presses his face into Kon’s shoulder, gripping his shirt with one hand. He’s exceedingly grateful that his best friend doesn’t mention it.  
  
(But Kon, unable to keep quiet for long, mumbles, “Bart hugs me,” and Tim pinches him again.)  
  
–  
  
Tim wakes in the dark, disoriented and muzzy.   
  
“Time izzit?” he asks blearily, struggling to sit up. Then, “D'I fall 'sleep on the couch?”  
  
“Bit after 5, sorry I woke you,” Kon’s voice answers, from somewhere near the kitchen. “Got hungry. And if you want to be technical–” he talks through a mouthful. “You fell asleep on me during the movie. Which I didn’t mind, until you started drooling.” Conversationally, he says, “You know you’re a drooler?”  
  
Tim blinks a few times in the dark, says, “Mmgf?”  
  
He hears Kon snicker. “You know, Wonder Boy, you aren’t so sharp when you’re half asleep.”  
  
Tim hums his agreement, squinting absently into the dark room. He and Kon had got here late– early, even, only a few hours ago, and Tim had immediately gone to the showers to rinse off the stench of Gotham.   
  
(Kon’s jaw had dropped at his first glimpse of Tim’s uncovered throat, had just stared for a full minute. “Did… he do that?” Kon had asked, a horrified whisper, and Tim had stared back in bewilderment. When he realised what the meta was asking, he gave a genuine laugh out of shock.  
  
“Batman? No. I get that you think he’s scary and all that, but you really think he’d do this to a kid?”)  
  
Tim… hadn’t felt much like sleeping, felt too wound up from the weight of the world dragging on his shoulders, and Kon (had he always been this perceptive?) had suggested they watch a movie. Embarrassingly, he didn’t think he’d lasted through the opening credits before falling asleep. He blinks tiredly.   
  
Kon flicks on a lamp by the couch, says, “C'mon, I think it’s bed time.”   
  
Tim flops back down with a half-aware mumble, raising an arm to shield against the light.   
  
Kon, dropping into a crouch beside him, puts on a mocking pout. “Aww, poor wittle soldier. Got himself all tuckered out. Need me to carry you to bed, kiddo?"    
  
Tim huffs into the cushion, sits up in a sharp motion. ” ’s no need to be an ass,“ he says, and sleepily shoves Kon in the shoulder. He kicks off the blanket Kon must have covered him with and stands. ”'kay,“ he announces, like it’s his idea. "I’m goin’ to bed.”  
  
“Goodnight, Rob.” He can hear the smile in Kon’s voice behind him.  
  
“G'morning, Kon,” he mumbles, and heads for his room.

-


	6. Chapter 6

**—**

  
  
Tim yawns as he moves into the kitchen.   
  
“Coffee’s on the counter,” Kon offers, and Tim looks at him like he’s grown another head. He rolls his eyes. “Don’t gimme that look, dude, I get coffee for Ma and Pa. I do  _chores_ , you know.”  
  
“Speaking of,” Tim says, frowning as he takes a seat at the table, clutching a full mug. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”  
  
“Told Ma I needed a personal day,” he shrugs. “She’s pretty nice about that stuff. I think she knows something’s up, anyway, because of what time I left.”  
  
Tim looks deep into the mug, clears his throat. “Hey, Conner? I just… wanted, you know. I mean, I’m. Grateful. For–”  
  
“ _Dude_ ,” Kon laughs. “Could you  _be_  more awkward?”  
  
Tim colours, scowling defensively. “I–”  
  
“Relax, Rob. Don’t want you to strain yourself,” Kon grins. “So, whatcha wanna do today?”  
  
“I don’t really have anything to work on,” Tim says, almost to himself. Because he’s caught up to schoolwork, knows Bruce would have excused him for the next few days at least, and. Well. He doesn’t know if Bruce even wants him in the Cave database right now,  _doesn’t even know if he’s still Robin_ –  
  
“Earth to Wonder Boy,” Kon sing-songs. Then, seeing he’s caught his friend’s attention, “You doing okay, Rob? You look kinda pale.”  
  
“I,” Tim says. Licks his lips and swallows. “I can help you with homework? If you’ve got some.”  
  
“Aww, hell yeah,” Kon says happily. “See, Tim. This is why you’re the best. So I’m screwed on matrices, because  _dude_  I don’t know if anyone told you, but they are not nearly as cool as the movie. So Mr. Kerrigan said the exam…”  
  
Tim nods along, slowly draining his coffee. Math, he can handle.   
  
–  
  
The first indication they have of Bart’s presence is the rush of wind as the door breezes open, a blur of colour as he speeds around the couch.  
  
“Connnnnnneeeerrrrrrrrrrr!!!” he says, and then, “Rob!!”   
  
He stops, long enough to jump in the air. He moves to dive into Kon’s lap, and the super sticks up a hand, catches him with his TTK. Then he lowers him, frozen and scowling, and hugs him.  
  
“You coulda hurt Tim,” Kon says, as an explanation (with only a hint of reproach).  
  
“I wouldn’t’ve,” Bart protests, rolling his eyes, but hugs back anyway.   
  
“Incidentally, Timmy-boy, this is what a best friend hug should look like. So’s you know,” Conner says, grinning smugly. Bounces Bart once.  
  
And Bart beams at him, says, “Hey Tim! I’m sorry, Connersaysyou'reupset so I shouldn’t ask you about stuff in Gotham.”  
  
Kon… slaps his own forehead. Groans.  
  
“What?” Bart says, bewildered. Turning back. “That didn’t count!”  
  
Tim tries to suppress his smile and can’t. (He loves his dorky friends). “Shouldn’t you be at school, Bart?”  
  
“It’s lunchtime! Hypocrisy, thy name is Robin. And Superboy.”  
  
“So you came to raid the kitchen,” Tim shakes his head.  
  
“Oh yeah!” and Bart speeds off Kon’s lap and to the kitchen, comes back with piles of snacks. “Iforgot.”   
  
And Tim looks at the ice-cold Zesti suddenly in his hand and laughs. “Thanks, Bart.”   
  
“Mmggfhhuuh,” Bart says, probably, but there’s a lot of food in his mouth so it’s difficult to tell. He swallows, with a little difficulty, and looks between them. Says, “Whatchu guys doin’.”  
  
“We  _were_  studying,” Kon says pointedly, gesturing towards his homework, now buried under piles of junkfood.   
  
“Oh, matrices,” Bart says, dismissively. He stuffs his face a little more, says, “Boring.” Doesn’t notice Conner’s death-glare. Then he grins, cheeks full of food. “What’re we gonna do for the rest of the day?”  
  
“ _You_  are going back to school,” Tim says, flatly. “We’re not getting you in trouble, Bart.”  
  
“School’s boring,” Bart whines. “Can’t I hang out here?”  
  
“Talk to Max after school,” Conner advises. “Maybe he’ll let you hang out tonight?”  
  
“Doubt it,” Bart says, suddenly morose, and shoves the rest of his food away. “…Being a kid superhero is lame.”  
  
Tim nods, a bitter taste rising on his tongue. He slinks down against the couch, half-closing his eyes, shoulders slumping. He feels his mouth curl into a frown.  
  
He doesn’t miss the way Conner hits Bart, though.  
  
–  
  
It’s a little after 8.30pm when there’s a knock at the door. Kon’s curious, because no one is ever that polite at the Tower.  
  
He answers it to find a… familiar, good-looking, dark haired guy smiling at him. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and Conner  _can’t place him_. “Hey. Didn’t mean to intrude.”  
  
“Um,” Kon says, dumbly.  
  
The guy’s grin is getting a little awkward when he laughs warmly. “Don’t recognise me without the mask, huh?” He lifts his fingers, covering the skin around his eyes. Waggles his eyebrows.  
  
Kon’s mouth falls open. “…Night… wing?”   
  
“Call me Dick,” he says, dropping his hands back to his sides. He’s still smiling when he tilts his head a little. “So Conner, as you might’ve guessed, I’m here to see my little brother.”  
  
“He’s asleep,” Kon says, truthfully.   
  
The man’s eyebrows disappear under his artfully tousled hair. “I think you misunderstood me. I mean  _Tim_. ‘bout yea high–” he holds up a hand, “–dark hair, kind of broody in a cute sort of way.”  
  
“I–” Kon says, blankly. “Yeah. He’s asleep.” And the man’s eyebrows somehow get higher, grin getting a little wider and more knowing. And then Kon gets it. “You– yeah. Ha ha. I guess he doesn’t usually sleep much.”  
  
“I can see why Tim likes you,” Dick says cheekily. “You don’t miss a trick!” and Kon really should be offended, but he winks and his laugh is gentle and affectionate. And he says, “I won’t keep him up long. Him and me just need to have a quick chat.”  
  
Conner narrows his eyes at that, protective instincts rising, because he didn’t want that look on his best friend’s face anymore. He folds his arms across his chest, blocking the doorway. “Listen,  _Nightwing_ –”  
  
“I’m here representing no one but myself,” Dick says, still friendly, but there’s  _steel_  in there.  
  
“Look–” Kon starts, a snarl, before–  
  
“…Dick?” They turn simultaneously to see Tim standing at the end of the hallway, sleepily propped against the wall and rubbing his eyes with a fist. He’s wearing wrinkled sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, a domino held loosely in the hand hanging by his side.   
  
The man grins, pointing at the domino, says, “Y'know, kiddo, that only protects your identity if you put it on.”  
  
Tim frowns, then, fist scrunching the mask. “Thought I heard you,” he says. And then, blankly, “Why’re you…?”  
  
Dick steps in, past Conner, and says, “Sorry to wake you, Timmy. Mind if we have a talk?”  
  
“Y-yeah,” Tim says, standing up straighter. “ 'course. Um.” And he waits for Dick to approach before he starts back to his room.  
  
“Y'know, little brother,” Dick says conversationally, one arm around him. “I’m not a huge fan of getting a couple missed calls from you, and then finding out you’re MIA. And have turned your phone off. Just so you know.”  
  
Tim gives a guilty start, eyes going wide. “I forgot my phone charger,” he says apologetically. “I didn’t think. I didn't– I mean, you shouldn’t’ve come out here just–”  
  
“I had a feeling you were safe once I talked to Ma Kent,” Dick tells him. He pulls Tim’s bedroom door half-closed behind them, and Conner thinks that is practically an invitation.  
  
And anyway, it’s barely eavesdropping if he doesn’t use his powers, right? Like, if a normal  _human_  could hear their conversation just by, say, loitering  _here_ , and maybe angling their neck like  _so_  in order to see through the open door–  
  
–well. It’s pretty much his duty as Tim’s Best Friend to make sure that his too-charming brother isn’t just there on some errand from the Bat, trying to make Tim return to the land of quiet, broody assholes so they can guilt him some more. (And whatever happened probably wasn’t his fault, so.)  
  
They sit on the edge of Tim’s bed, Nigh– Dick still giving a little half-smile. He tips sideways to bump his shoulder to Tim’s and says, “Wanna talk?”  
  
Tim’s voice is muffled when he speaks, face buried in his hands, and Kon has to strain  _not_  to use his super-hearing. (It’s a respect thing.)  
  
Dick’s smile twists, a little, to something sadder and more sympathetic as Tim keeps talking. But it doesn’t go away. And his hand returns to Tim’s shoulder, leaning in to murmur to him for a couple of minutes.  
  
Midway through, the tension drains from Tim’s shoulders, and he just looks sad and tired. “…Really?” he says, the first words in a while Conner can catch without cheating.  
  
“C'mon, Timmy. You don’t need me to tell you what to do.”   
  
“Sure’d be nice,” Tim says, mournfully, and Dick laughs warmly.  
  
“Trust me, handsome. He’ll ignore the whole thing. It’s how he operates.”  
  
At that Tim mumbles something else, and while Conner doesn’t catch the words, he hears the tone– low, self-deprecating.  
  
Dick stands, then, pulling Tim with him, and they hug.  
  
_A willing hug._  
  
Kon suppresses his gasp, eyes narrowing as Dick squeezes. He pulls back to kiss Tim on the forehead ( _Robin! Licensed Badass!!_  Conner’s brain screams), says, “Love you, lil bro.”  
  
Tim looks defeated, still sagging against Dick. “Mm. You too. I’m sorry you came out here.”  
  
“Don’t be,” Dick says, finally pulling back. “And don’t look so depressed, Timbo. You got this.”  
  
And Kon doesn’t hear his response because it occurs to him very suddenly that, in leaving Tim’s room, they will walk past his diabolical hiding place. Racing back, he thinks he’s never been so glad to be a super. (Bats are scary.)

  
Tim sees Dick to the door.  
  
“Just so you know,” Dick murmurs to Kon, on his way out. “I’m choosing to be grateful that Timmy has friends who care enough to eavesdrop.” And he winks, for the second time, only now it’s  _terrifying_.  
  
Kon goes pale as Dick gives them both a cheerful finger-wave and leaves.   
  
He sits beside Tim on the couch and there’s silence for a few minutes.  
  
Kon’s pose mirrors Tim’s, hands folded in his lap, staring ahead.  
  
“I think. I’ll go back to Gotham tomorrow.”  
  
“I had a feeling you would,” Kon says. “I’ll give you a lift before school.” And he ruffles Tim’s bed-head, just to see him glare.   
  
–


	7. Chapter 7

–  
“Thanks for the lift, Kon,” Tim says, shouldering his backpack. He sticks his hands in his pockets.  
  
“Anytime, Rob,” Conner says, on a yawn. Looking around at the trees. “You sure this is okay?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s great. I wouldn’t mind the walk anyway. It’s not too far.”  
  
Conner looks at Tim appraisingly then, says, “Don’t let him give you any shit, Tim. Batman or no.”   
  
“Yeah,” Tim says, on a half-smile. (He hopes it looks sincere.)  
  
“You know I’m just a yell away, right?” Kon says, and he’s got this little wrinkle between his eyebrows that won’t go away.  
  
Tim’s smile feels a little less forced when he says, “You’re gonna be late for school.”  
  
“Yeah,” the super purses his lips, says, “Ma’s gonna kill me if I don’t stop by and say hello.”   
  
“Look on the bright side,” Tim says, bumping Kon’s shoulder. “She’s probably made you breakfast.”  
  
“Hey yeah, that is true,” he says, suddenly happier. Then he says, serious again, “…Good luck.”  
  
“See you,” Tim says, lifting a hand in farewell. And he watches Kon take off into the gradually lightening sky.   
  
  
It’s almost an hour after dawn before Tim gets back to the manor. He takes a few moments to steel himself ( _–contingency plans just in case of the worst–_ ) before slipping in the back way.   
  
The kitchen is empty and clean when he walks by, and there’s anxiety rolling in his stomach. He had some vague notion of meeting Bruce on his own terms, but what the  _hell_  is he going to say?  
  
“ _I love him dearly_ ,” Dick had said, amended wryly, “ _Well. When I’m not too busy hating him… but the point is, he has pretty much the emotional capacity of a thimble. So when you show up back home he’s gonna act like nothing happened– which is fine, really– but later when he thinks you aren’t looking he’s gonna have this tiny smile on his face, which is his way of saying he’s glad you’re back._ ” And at Tim’s doubtful look, he’d added, “ _Tim. Trust me. He_  wants  _you to go home_.”  
  
But back here, Tim’s not so sure. Dick’s words are cold comfort. ( _–what if Bruce didn’t want him? –was waiting for an excuse? –hates him, sends him away? –worse, if Tim becomes invisible,_ ignored _? another ghost, memory, to haunt the manor–_ ) and his head is still spinning with impossible thoughts before he realises he’s reached his room without incident.  
  
It’s virtually the same as he left it, with two notable exceptions. The first is that the Robin costume has been neatly hung in his cupboard. The second is the breakfast tray, two pieces of toast and marmalade with a still-steaming cup of tea. Because apparently, Alfred is magic. Unless–  
  
And Tim sticks his head into the hall and catches sight of Alfred. “Um,” Tim says, and Alfred turns. “Did… Dick call you?”  
  
Alfred raises an eyebrow and says, “Should he have, young sir?”  
  
“I– never mind.”   
  
Alfred says smoothly, “I am afraid Batman was out rather late last night. I imagine Master Bruce won’t surface for some hours yet.”  
  
And Tim is so helplessly grateful for the understanding in Alfred’s eyes all he can do is smile, in spite of his anxiousness.  
  
“It is good to have you home, Master TImothy,” Alfred adds warmly.  
  
Tim closes his eyes, says, “Thanks, Alfred,” and means more.  
  
He eats the toast slowly, mind blank. And he falls asleep fully clothed across the bed.   
  
  
A few hours later finds Tim at a desk in the library, going through the homework Ives had emailed him. He has his headphones on, back to the door, and is concentrating pretty hard–  
  
–which is why he jumps a mile when a hand touches his shoulder.   
  
Tim yanks the headphones down as he turns to look up at Bruce, mouth open. Fleetingly grateful he was taken by surprise so he couldn’t freak out pre-emptively.  
  
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Bruce says, by way of apology. His hair is slicked back and he’s wearing an expensive grey suit. His expression is, as ever, inscrutable.   
  
Tim’s hands clench momentarily around the headphones and he says, “It’s cool.” But his heart’s still pounding.   
  
“I’ll be at a meeting for the next few hours and Alfred’s out running some errands.”  
  
“O–okay,” Tim says, and hopes belatedly it doesn’t sound too much like ’ _why are you telling me this?_ ’.  
  
“I’ll be back late–”  
  
 _Oh_. A sinking feeling.  
  
“–so be ready to go by about 11. Alfred will be home in time to make dinner.”  
  
 _Did he really just–?_  and Tim’s mouth is hanging open.   
  
“Um,” he says, and stutters, hating himself. “Sure thing, Bruce.”  
  
(Tim probably imagines the twitch of Bruce’s lips as he turns to leave.)  
  
–  
  
Patrol is… good. It’s exhausting though, in that Tim spends every other second with an eye on Batman, trying to figure out what he’s thinking or reading into his too-frequent silences.   
  
And, while everything goes well and they work seamlessly, like always– even that Batman lets Robin patrol on his own again, something Tim had not expected to happen for a  _long_  while after his colossal screw-up– he can’t help but feel he’s missing something.  
  
Something important.   
  
The anxiety pools in his gut.   
  
It’s a relatively quiet night, none of the standard crazies or the big fish, and they wind up heading home a little after 2.30am, Tim’s eyes feeling sandy behind the domino. It’s only been a week since his last patrol, but the combined stress of patrol and the state of his relationship with Bruce, still a mystery, have exhausted him more than he expected.   
  
Dick was right, though. Bruce hasn’t mentioned their fight, or the… incident.  
  
And closing his eyes to the somewhat comfortable silence in the Batmobile, leaning back in the passenger seat, he thinks he's… cautiously optimistic. Because Tim has spent half a decade learning how to read Bruce, to read Batman, and it seems that nothing’s changed.  
  
Tim opens his eyes when the car comes to a halt in the Cave, startled. He was lost in thought and didn’t notice how close they were to the Manor.  
  
He slides out of his seat and into the cold of the Cave, suppressing a yawn. He heads right over to the bank of computers, before–  
  
“Tim.”  
  
And he stops, because Bruce doesn’t call him by name when he’s wearing the domino. Feeling nervous in some way he can’t explain, he turns, schooling his expression into something unreadable. He cocks his head as question.  
  
Bruce – not Batman, because he’s taken off the cowl, now– looks. Different. There’s something odd in his face, the pull of his mouth. The set of his shoulders beneath the cape. And he says, “I wondered if we might… have a talk.”  
  
Tim feels sweat prickle in his gloves, barely resisting the nervous urge to wipe them on his tights, and he grits his teeth very slightly. “I…” he says. “Yeah. Um, what did you–?”  
  
And Alfred is suddenly beside him, “Good evening, Master Bruce. Master Robin.”  
  
Tim, self-conscious, touches the edge of his mask with a fingertip. He doesn’t feel much like Robin right now. “Hey, Alfred,” he says.  
  
Bruce just nods, accepting the steaming mug, though he sets it on the console a moment later. “Tim,” he says, again.   
  
“What’s on your mind, B,” Tim says, trying for normal. It sounds too cheerful, high-pitched in the dark silence of the Cave. It sounds like he’s trying to be Dick.  
  
And from his peripheral, Tim sees Alfred frown, a little, and set down the tray with Tim’s untouched drink.   
  
His adam’s apple brushes against the clasp of his cape as he swallows convulsively.   
  
“I needed to tell you,” Bruce says, firm, but oddly hesitant. “Devin Walsh– the mugger from the alley–”  _the man you stabbed_  hangs unspoken in the air, “He… contracted an infection, before he could leave the hospital.”  
  
Tim feels with excruciating clarity the trickle of sweat making its way down to the collar of his cape. His heartbeat loud in his ears.  
  
He thinks he stops breathing, can do nothing but watch Bruce’s mouth form the words–  
  
“He died, Tim.”  
  
–

 


	8. Chapter 8

–

The world shrinks down. And Tim can’t breathe, can hear nothing but his rabbit-quick heartbeat in his own ears.   
  
He sees black. He doesn’t know if his knees are supporting him any more, doesn’t know much of anything in the wake of Bruce’s voice, the cave echoing back  _he died, Tim._  
  
He feels like he’s under water, deep. Feels it pulling at him, icy cold, feels more than hears the roar of it around him. He's–– disconnected, confused. In shock. He thinks he might throw up.  
  
And Alfred’s hand touches his shoulder, snapping him out of it instantly. “Master Timothy,” he says, obviously concerned. “Are you quite alright?”  
  
It takes a moment for Tim’s numb lips to work. He can feel Bruce’s eyes on him. “I–” he says, croaks. Tries again. “Yeah. I’m just… I wasn’t expecting that.” He clears his throat, says, “T-thanks for the update, Bruce. I– I’ll do better.”  
  
And before Alfred can speak, Tim thrusts a thumb toward the stairs, says, “Um, I’m beat. I’ll head up now, but I’ll. Catch up with reports tomorrow.” And the smile feels like plastic on his lips.  
  
With jerky, uncomfortable movements, Tim climbs the steps, can barely make out the beginning sounds of Alfred’s quiet disapproval below.   
  
His chest feels constricted, and he doesn’t think he’s breathing right. He’s lightheaded as he leaves the Cave behind.   
  
  
  
Tim mechanically sheds his costume on his way to his room. Gloves first, folded tidily and tucked into his belt. Then the domino, also tucked into his belt. He unclasps the cape next, folds it carefully over his arm.  
  
_Robin’s a killer._  
  
He shuts the door behind him. Still breathing too shallow, he crosses to the bed. He removes his belt, laying the uniform very precisely on his bed. He strips methodically after that, shedding layers like second and third and fourth skins. He leaves them folded when he goes to shower.  
  
He doesn’t cry. He feels like maybe he should, but there’s still something black and ugly and constricting where his emotions should be.   
  
(Unless nausea is an emotion.)  
  
He drinks in the steam, trying to steady his breathing in the scalding shower. His mind is blank. And slowly, his well-trained body overcomes its natural physiological reactions.   
  
He stands under the hot spray for long enough that each droplet is like needles into his pink, abused skin.  
  
His hands and forearms are scrubbed red raw.  
  
_Murderer._  
  
And finally, after more than an hour, he gives up. He turns off the tap and sags, exhausted, against the cold shower tile. He still feels dirty, unclean. He will never scrub the phantom feel of blood off his hands.   
  
This is a mark he can’t remove. ( _He died, Tim._ )  
  
He dresses slowly into a pair of clean, soft pyjamas and brushes his teeth until his gums bleed. Then he exits the bathroom to sit on the end of his bed. Eyes ahead, hands clasped loosely in his lap. Shoulders straight.  
  
_Killer._    
(It was an accident.)  
  
And after a while, he goes back into the bathroom and stares into the mirror with a sort of sick curiosity.  
  
He looks the same. (Maybe it takes awhile, before it shows?) He looks like regular Tim, with tired circles under his eyes and a faint downturn to his lips.  
  
_Murderer!_  
(I’ll do better!!)  
  
He peers into his face, the face of a murderer. A killer. The face of someone who took a life.   
He feels… nothing. Numb.   
  
He wonders, absently, heading back to the bedroom, if Dick will hate him now. They were his colours, his name. His legacy. ( _not good enough_ )  
  
Tim spends the rest of the night sitting at the end of the bed, periodically checking his reflection in the bathroom mirror. (He looks the same  _how can he look the same?_  except his eyes are progressively more bloodshot, maybe that’s how it starts?)  
  
It seems like a long time before the sun comes up.  
  
  
Tim leaves early the next morning for school and comes home late, in order to avoid Bruce and Alfred as long as possible. He heads straight up to his room, but has no appetite for the food Alfred had left on his desk.  
  
He’d spent all day wondering. If anyone could see it. How  _marked_  he was, how broken. (He kept checking, every mirror, but couldn’t see it yet–)  
  
The sort of broken that whispers  _murderer_  with every brush of clothing, every time someone says his name. The sort of broken there’s no coming back from.  
  
And every time he closed his eyes, he saw the snarling face of  _Devin Walsh_. Murder victim.The Man Killed By Robin.  
  
_(It was an accident!)_  
  
“Tim,” Bruce says, from the doorway, and Tim jumps. He thought he’d shut his door. “I wasn’t expecting you to go back to school quite yet.”  
  
“I, um. Covered the bruises with makeup,” Tim hears himself say.   
  
Bruce watches him consideringly. Contemplatively. His expression is… foreign. Tim wonders what Bruce sees, looking at him. Faintly sick, he thinks he probably doesn’t want to know.  
  
Bruce’s voice is even when he speaks. “Will you be up to patrolling tonight?”  
  
“Yessir,” Tim says. Automatic.  
  
Bruce’s expression goes hard briefly. Then he nods, and he’s gone.  
  
  
  
They don’t discuss it during patrol, or after.   
  
And things are the same as before, which puts Tim on edge. Bruce dismisses him with his customary, “Goodnight, Tim”, without turning around. And so Tim goes upstairs, where he stares at the wall until he’s too tired to sit upright. Then he stares at the ceiling, instead.  
  
He leaves the light on.  
  
  
Tim faces another day of school, antsy and heavy with the weight of his crime. He sees it written on every face, every blackboard.   
  
Three different teachers ask him if he’s okay. (They sound like accusations.)  
  
He leaves after lunch and spends the rest of the afternoon walking back to the Manor, where he waits numbly for another patrol. He wants so much to sleep, but – _can'twontdon'tmakemePLEASE_ – doesn’t.   
  
So he goes on patrol again without complaint, says nothing when Bruce sends him home just after one. He smiles ( _plastic_ ) at Alfred when he gets in, politely turns down tea, and heads upstairs with feet that feel like lead.   
  
He sits on the end of his bed and waits. For what, he doesn’t know. At one point Dick phones, but Tim refuses the call. Ignores the subsequent two messages. And sits. Heavy and still, on the covers.  
  
The next thing Tim is aware of, he’s coming back to himself with a jerk, the sound of a (–dead–) man’s snarl in his ears, thick fingers ghosting across his aching throat. His eyes prickle and he wants to go back to a week and a half-ago. Wants to close his eyes and curl into himself and never, ever come out.  
  
He wants to sleep without fearing a dead man. (A murdered man.)  
  
And this is how he finds himself creeping downstairs just after three in the morning.   
  
  
For a long time he stands in the hallway, eyes focussed on the line of yellow light under the closed door to a sitting room. It’s Bruce’s favourite sitting room, where he goes some nights to work late. Even now, Tim can hear a faint rustle of paper and the clacking of fingers on a keyboard.  
  
Finally, Tim closes his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat that feels like razorblades, and knocks once before entering.  
  
Bruce glances up at him, faintly questioning, and returns to his work as Tim sits beside him on the plush sofa.  
  
Their silence is set to the sound of Bruce’s fingers flitting across keys. Eventually broken by Tim.  
  
“What are you working on?” His voice sounds horribly rough even to his own ears. And then, because he doesn’t expect Bruce to answer the first part, “Do you want some help?”  
  
Bruce stops typing, eyes flicking to Tim’s face. “You should be in bed, Tim,” he says, with something that might be gentleness.  
  
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Tim says. “Or, today.”  _I can’t sleep_ , he doesn’t add, because Bruce is supposed to be a detective.   
  
And Bruce doesn’t respond, returning to his work. And for a moment Tim’s heart stutters in his chest, panicked, because  _what if this is the final straw? if he’s finally driven away Bruce like he did his parents (bad child) he can't–_    
  
But Bruce says, “Take a look at this, would you?”, and Tim takes the file automatically, starts to scan it with his sandy, red-rimmed eyes before he realises, feels hope rise above the guilt in his gut.  
  
He skims the papers for a few minutes, eventually says tiredly, “It’s got to be an inconsistency in th’ police reports. Security footage is too easy to verify,” and Bruce nods thoughtfully as he takes the file back. “My money’s on McCarthy, something ‘bout his report doesn’t feel right.”  
  
And against his better judgement, Tim starts to slide, sleepily, against the back of the couch, tucks himself into Bruce’s side. Because he’s warm and safe and doesn’t seem to hate him, doesn’t look at him with anything like blame, and Tim just wants to sleep–  
  
His eyes, finally, are sliding closed, lulled by the safety, the warmth, the consistency of keystrokes and Bruce’s heartbeat. He drops off quickly, exhausted.  
  
And it can’t be more than a minute later when Bruce stands so quickly Tim falls face-first into the couch, waking with a start. He props himself up on his palms, half-asleep and muzzy, anxiety and nausea warring for space in his stomach.  
  
The man stands in the doorway, watching him with an odd twist to his mouth. “You should get some sleep, Tim,” he says, after a moment, and leaves him there.  
  
For a moment, Tim stares at the door. Trying to reconcile himself with what just happened.  
  
Then Tim heads upstairs alone, to face another sleepless night.

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcomed and thoroughly appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

  
–  
 _[Tim can’t breathe, the too-big hands around his throat squeezing the life out of him, and he thinks he’s crying, can’t fight back because it’s_  too much  _and he can’t move, is paralysed where he is––_  
  
 _He plunges the knife into soft flesh above him. The man stills, hands going slack, and Tim, gasping, pulls himself out from under Devin Walsh._  
  
 _Only now, the prone, bleeding figure is much smaller, covered mostly by a canary yellow cape, and Tim can’t breathe now for an entirely different reason, panic threatening to swallow him whole._  
  
 _The knife is bloody, his bare hands sticky with red. It leaves a handprint on the bright yellow as Tim frantically rolls over_  Robin,  _his victim, and it’s Jason’s horribly still, young face with blood all around his lips. His blood is soaking into the denim of Tim’s jeans._  
  
 _Batman stands a few feet away, watching, doing nothing, and Tim tries to call out. For help, an apology, but he can’t make a single sound._  
  
 _And when he looks back, it’s still Jason, but no longer a child. There’s blood all over his leather jacket, no domino to obscure his glassy, dead eyes–_  
  
 _And Tim’s sobbing now, begging for Batman's–Bruce's– help, but he just_  stands  _there, and Tim’s hands are dripping with dead man’s blood and he doesn’t know what to do._  He didn’t mean it!  
  
 _Desperate, he looks around for something– anything– to help, when he sees–_  
  
 _–they are in a field of corpses. Over there is– Tim chokes on his own breath– Conner. And Bart, and Stephanie, and Cassie. The rest of the Titans. And Jack–_  dad,  _and Dana, and Tim’s up and running but all he can see are bloody wounds and dead eyes, there’s no one left to help._  
  
 _Batman just watches, impassive._  
  
 _And Tim’s tripping, now, stumbles in the blood-matted grass and nononononononnononononononopleaseno, there’s black, a blue-stripe dyed red with blood, Dick, Dick no I'msosorryInever– and_  Alfred,  _and Tim can’t even move any more, on his hands and knees amidst the chaos he created, staring at the bodies of his friends and watching, as Batmanbrucebrucebruce just stands and stares. A few feet away, but absolutely unreachable.]_  
  
-  
  
Tim wakes up crying and soaked in sweat.   
  
His throat hurts from sobbing.  
  
He gets up, quickly, and stumbles into the bathroom where he is violently sick into the toilet. Closing his eyes to the sound against the porcelain bowl. From his place on the floor, he fumbles to flush.   
  
For a long while he sits on the bathroom floor, head pressed into the cool tiles on the wall. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It had only been for a few minutes, had felt like seconds–  
  
After a time, he stands on shaky legs and rinses his mouth. He wets a cloth to clean his face, uses it as a compress to make the swelling and redness of his eyes go down.   
  
Then he dresses and goes downstairs, even though it’s just after dawn, a worn paperback for an English report in one hand.   
  
But he teeters on the edge of indecision. Normally, he would go to the kitchen, but he doesn’t want to see anyone ( _they don’t want to see him_ ), wants to avoid… whatever it is they see, reflected back at him. So instead he changes direction and heads into one of the seldom-used parlours. Shuts the door and opens the curtains a crack.   
  
He sits, carefully, on the edge of a sofa. Dutifully opens the paperback. And he doesn’t read it, doesn’t even try, because his eyes, sandy and hot with exhaustion and guilt, can’t focus on the words. And goodness knows his mind is elsewhere.  
  
(He died, Tim.)  
  
Does Bruce know he would take it back, in a heartbeat? If he could?   
  
Tim blinks furiously, pained, at the tears that suddenly pool in the corners of his too-dry eyes. He wants to be sick again.   
  
And after a time, he hears Alfred’s footsteps in the hall. They pause outside the room. Lines of shadow creeping under the door. Tim holds his breath, because Alfred _knows_  he’s here.   
  
But the footsteps continue on, after a moment, and Tim is so grateful he sinks into the sofa, squeezes his eyes shut. Exhales through his nose.  
  
Because he can't–   
  
He sets the paperback beside him. What’s the point?   
  
What, exactly, do murderers do with their free time?   
  
What has  _any significance_  in the face of having taken a life?   
  
( _No wonder Bruce hates him, now._ )  
  
It’s a while before Tim hears Bruce’s footsteps coming down the stairs. He flinches, thinks back to earlier this morning ( _rejected_ ), but Bruce walks right on through to the kitchen.   
  
Tim can’t take any chances, so he creeps back upstairs to his room. At least there, he supposes, Bruce can’t run in to him accidentally. His adoptive guardian clearly doesn’t want anything to do with him, now (if he ever did).   
  
And so Tim curls up on the end of his bed, face buried in his arms. Hiding, like a child.  
  
He wishes it worked.  
  
–  
  
When there’s a knock at his door, Tim doesn’t answer. But Alfred comes in anyway.  
  
“Breakfast, Master Tim,” he says. Holding a tray. He settles it on the nightstand, beginning to fuss with the tea. He turns to hand Tim a plate of toast, a little stern.  
  
Tim can’t avoid this meal, like he has so many others. And Alfred doesn’t look away until he starts to eat.   
  
“It has come to my attention, young sir,” he says, with his back to Tim. “That you haven’t been sleeping.”  
  
Tim focusses on chewing, doesn’t respond. Knows Alfred doesn’t expect him to.  
  
“Do you mind if I join you, sir?”  
  
“I- Alfred–”  
  
And the man sits beside him on the bed, holding not one, but two cups of tea. It had been his plan all along. Tim can’t meet his eyes, stares determinedly at his plate.  
  
“Eat up, Master Tim,” Alfred prompts.   
  
Tim nods, obedient, and starts on a second piece of toast. It tastes like an accusation.  
  
He wants to cry.  
  
Alfred sits there, quite content in silence, for what has to be a few minutes. When he does finally speak, Tim covers his flinch by reaching for his tea. “I cannot help but notice you have also been eating less, Master Timothy.”  
  
“I guess I haven’t been hungry,” Tim mumbles, into his teacup. “I– s-sorry, Alfred.”  
  
“You owe me no apologies, my dear Timothy,” Alfred says, and it sounds so much like sincerity that, for a moment, Tim is at a loss.   
  
He sinks lower on the bed. Focusses on drinking the tea, so he doesn’t have to face the butler. His hands are shaking. He hopes, absently, that Alfred can’t make out the violent sloshing of his tea in its expensive china cup.  
  
“I–” he tries, but has nothing to say after all. Nothing that the butler wouldn’t already know.   
  
“Master Tim,” Alfred says, and it’s so unexpectedly firm Tim is startled into meeting his gaze. “What happened was not your fault, lad. I know it, as does Master Bruce. Though empathy, and, indeed, communication, have never been his strong suit. As you are no doubt aware.”  
  
Tim squeezes his eyes shut, turning away.   
  
“I had rather hoped this would go without saying,” Alfred continues thoughtfully. “But there are far too many things left unsaid in this household.”  
  
And Alfred takes his plate, setting it aside.   
  
“ _No one blames you for what happened_ ,” the butler tells him. “More important is that you’re home in one piece. Please do not blame yourself for something you cannot change.”  
  
They sit in silence for a few moments. Tim drinks what is left of his long-cold tea.  
  
Eventually, voice a broken whisper, he says, “I don’t know what to do.”  
  
Alfred’s arm is around his shoulders ( _when did that happen?_ ), gentle, grounding. “There is nothing we expect of you. Worrying yourself into a state of illness will do no good, Master Tim.”   
  
“But Alfred,” Tim slurs, and he is swaying slightly. The room is wobbling. He starts to tip backward and the butler is there, guiding him gently to the mattress. Then, as the teacup is taken from his slackened fingers, “…did you… dose me?”  
  
Alfred doesn’t respond, settling him comfortably on his pillows and adjusting the blankets. He sweeps Tim’s hair off his forehead in a painfully kind gesture, says, “I should very much appreciate it, Timothy, if you would remind yourself that what happened was not your fault. A tragedy, yes, but unavoidable.”   
  
And Tim starts to panic, struggles to fight against the fog in his head, says desperately, afraid, “Alfred–”   
  
“All is well,” Alfred tells him, and it’s a promise. Patting his hand, he says, “Sleep well, Master Tim.”   
–


	10. Chapter 10

–  
  
  
Tim feels as though his head has been stuffed with cotton balls.   
  
He sits up and promptly tips back over. He yawns, warm and relaxed, and rolls over. Buries himself into the pillow and goes back to sleep.  
  
  
And when he wakes the second time, later and better-refreshed, the guilt hits him like a sledgehammer.  
  
He  _forgot._  
  
He killed a man, someone’s son or brother or friend, he killed a  _person_ , and forgot. It doesn’t matter that it was only for a waking minute, doesn’t matter that he was fuzzy from drugs and sleep.  
  
 _He forgot._  
  
He hates himself.   
  
  
He’d slept fourteen hours, according to Alfred. So he picks at the dinner left in the fridge for him, and returns upstairs to suit up.  
  
He sits on the end of the bed, Robin minus the gauntlets and domino, until Alfred comes to fetch him. And Bruce doesn’t speak, doesn’t even glance at him when he comes down to the Cave. (No one blames him.  _Ha._ )   
Alfred’s hand is gentle on his back, encouraging him towards the Batmobile.   
  
Tim sits in the passenger seat and waits for Batman to finish up at the console. Tonight, he thinks, is going to be a long one.  
  
  
It’s late and Tim’s tired, and they’re dealing with some gang shit– him and Batman, back to back. It doesn’t matter Batman hasn’t said a word all night, doesn’t matter that Tim’s caught his gaze only twice in the three hours they’ve been patrolling– they work together flawlessly. They’re practically choreographed, Tim anticipating his partner’s every step, changing, altering his fighting style and stance to better meld with Bruce’s.   
  
And Bruce takes out the man on his right (Tim’s dubbed him “nose ring”), leaving only a few players standing, not including the few who had already fled from the Batman.  
  
Robin spins, dropping one guy with a kick to the chest– he dodges a solid punch aimed right at his head, ducking under the man to headbutt him. Sending him flying.  
  
And Tim turns, abruptly finding himself face-to-face with a dead man.   
  
He stops, eyes going wide, ice-cold fear trickling down his spine. He’s helpless. Pinned under the gaze that’s haunted him–  
  
His voice cracks with terror when he tries to speak. “B–?”  
  
And Batman’s there right away, cape brushing him on the way past. Slamming a gauntleted hand into the man’s throat. He cracks against a wall, head bouncing. Batman’s weight pressing against him. His teeth are bared below the cowl.  
  
“I thought I made it clear to you, Mr. Walsh,” Batman rasps. “What would happen if I ever saw you again.”  
  
“Didn’t even touch the kid this time,” Devin Walsh grunts. Annoyed. Defensive.  
  
Broken cheekbone, Tim thinks clinically, as Batman smashes an armoured elbow into Walsh’s face. Tim’s shaking, now, realisation creeping up.   
  
He watches as Batman drags the man back to his feet, leans in to growl something out of earshot. Sends him sprawling to the dirty pavement again, with what’s probably a dislocated shoulder.  
  
And Robin stands there, helpless, the mostly-faded bruises on his throat aching. Hands twitching. Visibly shaking.  
  
Batman is watching him. “Call the police, Robin. Start securing the prisoners.”  
  
Tim closes his mouth. Startled. He nods, face feeling numb. And he puts in an automated call to the GCPD, fumbles for the zip-ties in his belt. He can’t take his eyes off of Walsh.  
  
He feels sick.  
  
Betrayed.  
  
Because how could–  
  
How could he–  
  
Batman, after everything–  
  
He flinches away when Batman touches his shoulder, nudges him towards the car. Because the police cars are arriving and Tim’s been standing here for what seems like an eternity.  
  
Bruce’s mouth is a grim line, his shoulders stiff. Says, “Home. We’ll talk.”  
  
–  
  
They don’t make it quite that far.  
  
By the time they arrive back at the Cave, Tim’s launching out of the Batmobile, pale and shaking. He hadn’t intended to start anything, but it had come pouring out–  
  
(“What is this,  _fun_  for you?”  
  
There’d been the minuscule creak of Batman’s gauntlets tightening on the wheel, a brusque, “We can talk at home.”  
  
Tim had snapped at that, uncharacteristically, said, “What is there to talk about? You telling me I’m a murderer for shits and giggles?”)  
  
–only now he’s standing in the middle of the Cave, Batman staring at him. And he’s more furious, more  _hurt_  than he thinks he’s ever been, feels something painful bubbling up in his chest. And he’s saying, “People… people say  _I’m_  cold. But you–” and he shakes his head, says, “This is the first time I’ve ever wanted to grow up to be nothing like you. You’re toxic, Bruce.”  
  
And Batman’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t lower the cowl. He says, “Are you done?”  
  
Something sparks in him at that, at Bruce’s continued indifference. “People aren’t  _experiments_ , you can't– you can’t just  _screw one up_  and then start again.”   
  
And Tim wonders, briefly, at how Bruce must see him. If he even sees a person at all, or just some tool, some… clockwork piece that needs adjusting. And he can’t stand it, suddenly, to be standing here. With this man, under his gaze.  
  
So he leaves, tearing upstairs and through the study. He doesn’t even realise he’s being followed until he hears– "Robin.“  
  
He swivels, tearing off his mask, mindless of the glue. He doesn’t register the pain of torn skin, the warm sting of blood running down his cheek. ” _My name is Tim_.“   
  
The shout echoes.  
  
Heart pounding sickly in his chest, he says, "I’ve given up  _so much_  for you, and it’s  _still_  not enough– you don't– you don’t trust me, you still don't–” his throat seizes, around the words you  _still don’t want me_ , and it hurts too much.  
  
Bruce, a little softer, says, “Tim. I hadn’t intended for you to find out about it this way.”  
  
Tim doesn’t fully register he’s crying until he’s brushing tears off his cheeks, says, “The worst bit is that you  _know_  if you’d just asked, I’d do anything for you. I wouldn’t have even–” and his throat closes, again, with anger and something else.  _I wouldn’t have even argued_ , he wants to say.  _If you told me you didn’t want me anymore. I would have left like you wanted me to._  
  
Bruce is looking at him like he’s a stranger, with faint bewilderment.  
  
And it occurs to Tim quite suddenly that this house is yet another place he’s not wanted, somewhere he can be ignored and neglected and left alone until it’s convenient. Dusted off on a whim and then put right back, until the next time.   
  
He just shakes his head, feeling sick. He exits the study, walking past a worried Alfred. He'll– grab some clothes, and his laptop, and–   
  
And he'll–  
  
“ _Tim_ ,” Bruce says, from behind him. He’s taken off the cowl, looks pained.   
  
Alfred is nearby, glancing between them. Genuinely concerned, confused. Wary, almost.   
  
And Bruce says, “Can we sit down and talk about this?”  
  
Tim draws himself up with an effort, says, “Shouldn’t you be somewhere taking notes on this? I mean, you want your results to be accurate, right?”  
  
Bruce closes his mouth, lips pressed in a hard line.   
  
So Tim stalks upstairs without another word. And only when his door is closed, his cape bunched up as he leans against it, does he raise his shaking hand to wipe at his eyes again. He stares blankly at the domino scrunched in his fist.  
  
And then he changes clothes and packs in record time, making for the door.   
  
Alfred is in the hall, but before he can speak, Tim says, “Alfred, please don’t try to stop me–”  
  
The man says, frowning, “My dear boy, I would hardly expect you to stay.” and squeezes Tim’s shoulder. He looks mournful when he says, “Be safe, Master Tim.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tim says, fiddling with his backpack. “I’ll see you– uh, yeah.”   
  
–  
  
Dick picks up after only two rings, even though it’s just after 4am. “Timmy?” he says, immediate. There’s concern in there, but he’s trying to sound casual. “How’s it going, kiddo?”  
  
“Can you–” Tim says hoarsely, hating himself. “Can you come pick me up? I’m in Bludhaven, but I don’t really, um, know my way around–”  
  
“ _Always_ ,” Dick says, halting Tim’s stuttering apology. “Where are you?”  
  
“I’m, um, at the bus-terminal on 37th. Near a gas station.”  
  
“Civvies?”  
  
Tim makes a sound of agreement, and Dick says, “Hang in there, sweet thing. I’ll be there ASAP.”  
  
And Tim says, “There’s no rush,” even as Dick hangs up. And he adds, to the dial-tone, “… sorry.” He wraps his arms around himself, shivering. And settles in to wait.   
  
He really doesn’t know what to do.  
  
  
And he’s so lost in thoughts he doesn’t notice when Dick pulls up across the street, jerks upright when he hears a quiet car-horn.  
  
The driver door is open, Dick standing on the street. He’s leaning, partly, on the car roof. He’s lit from behind in the yellow glow of a streetlamp, and it’s impossible for Tim to make out his expression. But his posture says concern, and his head’s cocked toward Tim.   
  
He snatches up his backpack from the seat, starts across the road.   
  
They get into the car in silence.  
  
Tim busies himself with tucking his bag under his legs and fiddling with his seatbelt so he doesn’t have to look Dick in the eye.  
  
Dick taps against the steering wheel, staring ahead. “Want to talk about it?” he asks, glancing at Tim.  
  
He shakes his head wordlessly, and Dick drops it, the car humming to life.  
  
  
He jerks awake when the car eases to a gentle halt, finds himself pressed against the passenger-side window curled under Dick’s jacket. They’re outside Dick’s apartment building, the radio on low. The readout on the dash says it’s a little after 5am.   
  
And Dick switches off the car, says, “Here we are, Timbo.”  
  
Tim fumbles for the seatbelt, grabs up his backpack. He rubs his eyes as Dick locks the car and absently swipes his bag, slinging it over a shoulder as he leads the way into the building.  
  
“Thanks for coming to get me,” Tim murmurs.  
  
And Dick flashes him a sincere smile, one that’s fond and a little sad, and says, “What are big brothers for, Timmy?”  
  
–

 


	11. Chapter 11

**-**

****  
Tim’s face itches.  
  
Dick says “Don’t scratch”, and Tim doesn’t jump, even though he didn’t know the man was awake. So he drops his hand back to the mattress and moves to roll over.  
  
Dick, though, is having none of it, takes his shoulder and tugs him close. He’s still mostly asleep, face slack, eyes half-lidded, and he holds Tim still to examine his face. He shifts, pressing a kiss to the bandaid under Tim’s eye. And then he says, “Ver’ handsome,” with a sleepy, fond smile. Eyes sliding closed as he flops back to the pillows.  
  
At that Tim does roll over, face warm. Gives a little twitch of surprise when Dick half-sprawls over the top of him. Dick mumbles, into his hair, “ ’s Sunday. An’ it’s early. I’m goin’ back t'sleep.” And then, “You don’t have t'sleep, but don’t move. ’s comfy.”   
  
The clock readout says it’s a little after 7.30am. And he doesn’t think Dick was kidding. So Tim lets his eyelids droop, presses further into the covers.   
  
It’s hard to believe they only stumbled up here about two hours before, after Dick had set him at the kitchen table to clean up and bandaid the self-inflicted wound on his face, had tiredly squeezed Tim’s shoulder and said, “why don’t we work out the guest room in a while, hmm? let’s get some sleep, lil bro”, had sent Tim to clean up while he dug out some clothes to sleep in. (He’d tidied his bedroom a little, too, but Tim thinks he wasn’t supposed to notice. But it’s kind of nice how Dick knows he likes things clean.)  
  
“ _Sleep_ , Timmy,” Dick grumbles, tightening his arm.   
  
So Tim does.  
  
  
They wind up eating breakfast at almost midday, rumpled hair and sleep-clothes, Dick eating eggs right out of the pan while Tim hunches over the table and tries to think of something to say.  
  
For once, though, it seems like Dick doesn’t mind. He does the talking for both of them. Fills the emptiness in Tim’s gut with anecdotes and stories and fond nicknames, animated complaints about coworkers and criminals, declarations about movies Tim has to see. Distractions.  
  
Then he steers Tim upstairs with instructions to shower, says he’s popping out to get some decent food. Ruffles his hair until it’s sticking up stupidly. And he waggles his eyebrows in that way that would be embarrassing on anyone else, but is mostly endearing on Dick, says, “Clean towels are under the sink, kiddo. And careful, the cold tap is loose.”  
  
Tim showers, uses borrowed soap and shampoo to wash away patrol and Dick’s sheets and burnt toast. He shuts off the water after only a few minutes, hair dripping into his eyes.   
  
He ignores the clothes in his backpack in favour of borrowing some of Dick’s ( _–he doesn’t feel like being Tim Drake right now–_ ) and returns downstairs. Sitting on the couch, waiting for Dick to come back.    
  
  
Dick winds up bringing home a few (fairly) sensible food options, as well as a whole pile of processed garbage.   
  
He settles a stack of rented DVDs on the coffee table, greets Tim with a lazy grin. And they put away the groceries in a comfortable silence.   
  
Dick breaks it, “I’ve gotta do a little bit of work, just finalising some reports and other clerical crap I’ve been slacking on. After that, though, I am way overdue for a watching-movies-and-turning-off-my-brain-athon.”  
  
He ropes Tim into helping him, (“because you’re so much smarter than me, Timmy–”, gets a stupid little smile on his face when Tim snorts) so they’re done by a little after four.   
  
Then he drags Tim to the couch, buries him in blankets and pillows and junk food. He slings an easy arm over Tim’s shoulders, presses play on the DVD.  
  
No one mentions patrol.  
  
  
  
Tim wakes the next morning to Dick’s hand on his shoulder, the man asking, “You gonna get up and ready for school?”  
  
And he doesn’t even have to think about it, says, “No.” Doesn’t turn around.  
  
“Wow,” Dick says. His hand is warm and heavy. “I wish I had that sort of empowered attitude at your age.”  
  
Tim doesn’t say anything to that, just waits until Dick gives up and shifts the blankets around him, absently presses a kiss to his hair.   
  
Tim dozes, in and out, to the sounds of Dick’s shower running, the smell of steam and toothpaste and shaving cream, the creak of bedsprings and the rustle of fabric. And once Dick’s ready for work, his goes to touch Tim’s shoulder again. Only this time, Tim’s expecting it– gives a tired little twitch, a  _flinch_ , before the man makes contact. The hand hovers, and is withdrawn.   
  
Dick tells him, after a moment, “I’ve got a short shift today, only 7 hours. You can entertain yourself for that long, right?” And he doesn’t really expect Tim to answer, continues, “Timmy. If you need me for  _anything_ , I want you to call, okay? Me personally, I mean. Don’t dial 9-1-1. They frown on that.”  
  
With nothing more than the rather ominous instructions; “Don’t go in the guest bedroom, okay?”, Dick leaves for work.  
  
Tim, predictably, spends the day cleaning.   
  
He starts off in the en suite, mechanically scrubbing the shower and the floor. He wipes everything down with an unopened bottle of disinfectant he found in the back of Dick’s cupboard, clears out the empty toilet rolls and shampoo bottles. He moves onto the guest bathroom, and then gets started on the kitchen. He takes a break for lunch, then straightens and vacuums the living room, tries to neatly sort the stacks of magazines and DVDs. Anything else seems a little too personal, invasive, so he settles on the couch to wait. Mind blank.   
  
  
And when Dick comes back, late afternoon, he greets Tim with a peck on the cheek, a “Hey, handsome.” as he slings off his jacket. And then his eyes go wide, and he says “ _Wow okay_  I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong apartment. And in my defence, you remind me of my cute little brother–”  
  
Tim’s lips turn down, disapproving, and Dick laughs helplessly. Says, “ _Timmy_  you– if I knew it bothered you that much, I’d’ve cleaned it yesterday. I’m sorry, kiddo.”   
  
And Tim doesn’t say anything to that, gives an awkward little half-shrug, while Dick looks around, wide-eyed.   
  
He says, “Did you  _replace the kitchen tile_?”   
  
Tim’s voice is dangerously close to cutting when he says, “Just cleaned them,” and Dick turns, slow, to face him.   
  
A smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes, he murmurs, “There you are,” and changes the subject before Tim can ask what that’s supposed to mean.   
  
  
It’s that night when Tim finally asks, halting, “So– how much d'you know?”  
  
Dick looks up from his work, an experimental wingding, half-completed, drops to the table. He doesn’t seem to notice, says, “We don’t have to do this now–”  
  
And Tim gives that half-shrug again, mouth curling down at one side.  
  
Dick’s features soften, and he says, “I– Alfred called me. He told me that the man, from that night, he. He told me that he died.” Earnest and sad, hand reaching out to cover his, he says, “But Tim.  _Timmy_. No one thinks you did anything wrong, and whatever happened at home–”  
  
Tim’s voice cracks. “He’s not dead. Bruce was– he. He lied.”  
  
The elder is stunned into silence, mouth falling slack. This was not what he expected. “But,” he says. “That doesn’t even–  _why_  would he want to–?”  
  
Tim admits it, quiet. Ashamed. “He doesn’t want me to be Robin anymore.”   
  
-


	12. Chapter 12

–

Dick hugs Tim for a long time before his patrol.

They stand, silent, in Dick’s bedroom by the window. Tim quiet and cold and still, a contrast to Dick’s arms, warm and so alive, his breath ruffling the hair behind Tim’s ear.

(“ _Timmy, that’s not– he– okay, whatever stupid-ass reason or justification he_ thinks  _he has– that. That’s not it. If he didn’t want you to be Robin any more, he’d tell you to your face. Trust me on that.”_ )

And after a while, a long while, Dick moves back to kiss Tim’s forehead. Says, “Call me if you need me,” and Tim tells him “I’ll be fine” and “Be safe”, tries to smile when Dick salutes him.

Then he’s gone, vanished into the night.

Tim spends a long time at the window, looking out into the dark. 

(“ _Tim. Sweetheart. If. If you were– fired. You would know it. Okay? He– he doesn’t mince words in these circumstances. I know what I’m talking about, here_.”)

He heads downstairs, into the kitchen. He’d convinced Dick to go tonight, told the man he’d be fine here. But in reality, he… doesn’t know what to do.

He’d thought being honest with Dick, telling him what was going on, might have made him feel. Well,  _something_. But he still feels empty and a little lost, faintly nauseous deep down. 

( _“So here is the plan. For now, you… are going to stay with me. Eventually, though, you are going to have to talk it out with B–_ ” and, seeing Tim’s panic “ _–but not right away. I mean. He clearly needs some time on his own to contemplate being a_ huge goddamn asshole _.”_ He’d smiled, brushing his fingers over Tim’s. Pretended not to notice his flinch _. “But until then, you can stick around as long as you need. And it’s going to be good for you._ ”)

Tim sits down on Dick’s couch. Heavy. A burden, so  _fucking selfish_ he can’t stand himself.

Dick doesn’t want him here. No more than Bruce did, or his parents. 

(But he didn’t know where else to  _go_.)

(“ _You’ll need to go back to school, though,_ ” he’d said thoughtfully, tracing the shape of Tim’s fingers with his own. “ _It doesn’t have to be tomorrow, or even the day after that. But soon, okay?_ ”)

Tim sits on Dick’s couch in Dick’s apartment in Dick’s living room, surrounded by Dick’s things, where he doesn’t belong. 

Out of place and left behind. 

-

It’s the early hours of the morning when Dick shakes him awake gently, crouched on the floor in his Nightwing suit, domino in one hand. Says, “Hey, kiddo. You want to head on upstairs to bed?”

Tim sits up blearily. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

The living room is long-dark, washed blue by the light from the TV screen. He’d been sprawled sideways on the couch, face pressed into the cushions. 

He ducks under Dick’s arm to stand, shrugging off the heavy hand, while the man fumbles for the remote where it’s fallen behind the cushions.

And if Dick notices he’s been crying, he doesn’t say anything. 

-

Dick sleeps through his alarm. 

Tim wakes up first, curled around his borrowed pillow with Dick’s hair tickling above the collar of his t-shirt. He nudges an elbow back, mumbles, “What time d'you get up for work?”

“Six thirty,” Dick says, voice muffled and hoarse. “ ‘larm’s set, Timmy.”

Tim goes rigid, eyes on the clock readout at the beside. Says, “It’s seven twenty-five, Dick.”

The blankets twitch, there’s a yell of “SHIT!” and a thump as the man more-or-less falls out of bed, legs still tangled in the sheets. “I– shower, dammit,” and there’s a scramble, loud footsteps bolting towards the bathroom. The slam of the door.

Tim lays in bed another minute, bemused. Then he heads downstairs. 

-

Tim raps on the bathroom door, slightly out of breath. 

“It’s unlocked, kiddo,” comes Dick’s voice. “But I’m naked, so enter at your own risk.”

He opens the door carefully, ignores the outpouring of steam, the shadow behind the shower curtain. He balances the plate carefully in his hand, says, “Breakfast,” and sets it on the bathroom counter. “Coffee’s on the sink.”

Dick’s head pokes out one end of the shower curtain, hair dripping and pasted to his face. His eyes are comically wide, and there’s a thin trail of blood on his jaw from misadventures in shaving.

“It’s only toast,” Tim apologises, and ducks out before he can hear Dick’s response over the rush of the shower. 

And Dick flies down the stairs a few minutes later, fully dressed and munching on toast-crusts. He grins when Tim doesn’t meet his gaze. He sets his mug on the table and ducks down to kiss the boy’s cheek (crumbs inclusive, but Tim’s not fussy), says, “ _You_  are the best housewife-slash-little-brother in the whole world.”

Dick’s arms are heavy over Tim’s shoulders. He shrinks under the weight and the attention, resting his hands on Dick’s forearms while the man squeezes. And he says nothing when Dick murmurs, “Layin’ out my uniform an’ everything,” and rubs his shower-damp hair against Tim’s temple. The smile loud in his voice.

Eventually, Tim says, “Aren’t you late, Dick?”

“Mhm,” the man says, and pulls back. He grabs Tim’s chair and tips it back on two legs, leaning over the top of him. (Tim’s not worried. Dick won’t drop him.) Says, “Have fun today, okay Timmers?”

“Is that an order, Officer?” Tim says, arching an eyebrow. But Dick mostly knows that’s the way he laughs sometimes.

“Think of it as a friendly suggestion, young man,” Dick says, in his booming  _All-Is-Well, Citizen_  voice. But he’s laughing, too.

And Tim snorts. 

Dick says, “I’ll see you tonight, handsome.” And he kisses Tim again like it’s nothing, drops his chair back to the floor. And he leaves Tim to his breakfast.

-

Tim spends the day doing practical things. First, a long-overdue pile of laundry, for Dick. (He throws in some of his clean clothes from his backpack, for appearances.) The washing facilities are in the basement of Dick’s building, and idly, watching the darks chase each other around the front-load washer, water frothy with detergent, Tim wonders if it causes Dick problems. Or if he has surveillance down here, to see when it’s empty so he can wash his costume in privacy.

He might ask later.

And after successfully washing, drying and folding Dick’s laundry, (and putting it away, because he’s organised like that), Tim sits at the kitchen table to write down the pitifully short list of things he knows how to cook.

It looks like this:

Eggs

Pancakes

Pasta

Tomato soup (or chicken?)

 ~~Casserole~~ **NO**

Shepherd’s pie

He considers putting a second list, beside the first, entitled “Things Dick likes to eat”, but there would only be three items on there for sure. Cereal, Alfred’s cooking, and take-out. 

Tim sighs. Then he turns the paper over and starts on a sensible grocery list. 

So Tim does the groceries (a success; he uses the credit card Bruce gave him a few months ago, because he doubts the $38.42 charge will give the billionaire pause, and it’s hardly a secret where he’s staying), fumbles his way through making dinner (a recipe from memory, and Dick’s kitchen is not user-friendly), and fires off a quick text asking what time Dick gets off work. Then he tidies Dick’s closet (superficially, because he doesn’t want his brother thinking he’s a freak), and scribbles some notes for an upcoming history assignment.

He’s so absorbed in his notes, it takes him a few minutes to notice the sounds from downstairs, the distinctive, “Timbo?” and then, “…Timmy?”

The man’s in the kitchen, grins stupid-wide on seeing him. Says, “Hey there, kiddo.”

And Tim heads down the stairs while Dick opens the fridge, says, “You went shopping today?” and then, “Oh  _man_ , is that dinner? Shepherd’s pie? That looks delicious, damn, can we put it in the oven now?” and he’s mumbling to himself, chattering cheerfully, head still in the fridge. Then he closes the door and says, “Well? Do I get a hug, or no?”

Tim eloquently says, “Huh?”

“It’s the only rule of Casa de Dick,” the man says, holding out his arms. Still grinning. “So?”

Tim rocks forward on the balls of his feet, twitches back again in an abortive motion. He doesn't– is Dick joking? He doesn’t want to make it awkward if the elder is just trying to be annoying, or– is he supposed to laugh? What if he goes in for the hug and Dick didn’t mean it? He–

“Gotta do everything myself,” Dick says, rolling his eyes, and yanks Tim into a bone-crushing hug. “Missed you,” he says, quiet enough Tim doubts his ears. And, “What did you get up to today?”

“Nothing much,” Tim mumbles, as Dick releases him. Then he smiles, crooked, says, “Did you do anything especially heroic?”

“I did rescue that box from the floor in the doorway,” Dick says, pointing. 

There’s a relatively large box sitting on the kitchen table. Open. Tim heads over, finds two much smaller boxes sitting beside it. One is labelled  _Master Richard_ , the other  _Master Tim_ in Alfred’s impeccable handwriting. And–

in the bottom of the larger box is a painfully familiar flash of green and red. Tim’s breath stutters in his chest, and he reaches out reverently to touch the fabric with his fingertips.

“So,” Dick says. “You want to patrol with me tonight, Robin?”

–

 


	13. Chapter 13

**-**

 

Robin is struggling to catch up.

Nightwing’s still a few rooftops ahead (and how is that fair? He’d eaten  _twice_ as many Alfred-cookies as Tim, had even made him think, for a second, that he’d eaten  _Tim’s_ Alfred-cookies, which made him go an angry pink until Dick gave it up and laughed, produced the box from behind his back–), and he doesn’t even seem out of breath. 

(He’s always been a show-off.)

But Robin’s grinning wide. It feels good, to be out on the streets again, even if they’re not  _his_ streets. Not like Gotham.

And Dick had ruffled his hair before they’d left, said, “Reckon you c'n keep up with me, kid?” with his shit-eating grin. Then he’d put on his domino and gone out the window so quick, Tim, for a second, had thought he’d fallen. Then he’d scrambled to put on his own domino and cape, followed the streak of blue in the distance. The sound of laughter. 

It’s exhilarating. Dick’s laughter over the  _whoosh_  sound of his cape, the familiar flare of the fabric around him with every swing, with every jump. The creak of his gauntlets and the thud of his boots. The brief sensation of weightlessness when he hits that sweet spot right in the middle of a swing. The moment right before his feet connect with the next rooftop. 

And– the all-encompassing, split-second panic, when he realises  _he’s missed the next jump_ , deceptively close in the dark, oh  _shit_ –

Nightwing grabs him by the arm, hard enough to bruise, and yanks him up to safety. Says, “That jump got me the first couple times, too." 

"You couldn’t’ve just warned me?” Robin grunts, rubbing at his arm. 

Nightwing gives his shoulder an apologetic squeeze and smiles. “Would you believe I forgot it, ‘til the last minute?” and then, with a wink, “Shake it off, huh champ?" 

"You’re an ass,” Robin huffs, shrugging off his gauntleted hand. And he stands, deliberately ignoring the sounds of his brother’s laughter.

Nightwing keeps pace with him after that, pretends not to hear his annoyed declaration that he can take care of himself, thank you, and don’t stay behind on his account. (But he’s trying not to smile, and Dick knows it.)

They stop a robbery-in-progress first, that’s an in-and-out job. Cops on the scene in under seven minutes, crooks neatly trussed up outside the convenience store. Their weapons dismantled and scattered on the pavement around them.

Nightwing and Robin watch the arrests from afar, to make sure the hand-off goes okay, and then Nightwing’s on the move again before Robin can say “ _hey would you wait a_ second _–”_

but he’s already gone. 

Robin catches up with him a few rooftops later, rolls his eyes at Nightwing’s exaggerated  _'shh’_  motion. He skulks over to his brother’s side, crouching too. 

The elder leans in, lips ticking his ear, and murmurs “Couple badasses in here, okay?”

And Robin elbows him in the ribs ( _that tickles–_ ) and says, “What’s the plan?”

“Go in, kick some ass,” Nightwing tells him, with a flash of teeth. “So, same as always. You take the back, I’ll come in from above?”

“You always get the fun stuff.”

“Who’s the sidekick, here?” and the flash of his teeth in the dark make a shiver of anticipation run down Tim’s spine.

The fight, when it comes down to it, is more-or-less typical. Nightwing, first, coming through the skylight, saying something along the lines of “Thought I told you assholes what’d happen if I caught you here again?”, and then, “Say hello to my little friend!” as Robin bursts from the shadows. It was showy and kind of sarcastic, really.

And it’s almost over, before one of the criminals– safety-pin lip ring, and a series of obscene tattoos down one side of his snarling face– comes at Robin, with a pocket knife clutched in one hand.

Robin is calculating the outcome of 23 different blocks, the safest, quickest, most convenient ways to disarm the man. But  _Tim?_  Tim’s frozen. Paralysed, a shock of fear rooting him to the spot. The knife is a silver arc in the air, and he  _can’t move,_ acutely aware of every potential consequence, each way it could backfire or he could  _hurt_ the man, maybe seriously–

Nightwing comes from the side, twisting the knife out of the man’s grasp, slamming him into the wall, sending him, dazed, to the concrete. And then his hand is on Tim’s shoulder, heavy through the Robin cape–

For a moment, he thinks his brother will shake him. But he doesn’t, and Tim knows he wants to–

“Doing okay, kiddo?” he says. But it sounds to Tim, more like  _what the hell were you thinking?_  White lenses focussed intently on his face, even though he’s trying to smile. 

Dick is shaken up.

Robin shrugs him off, nodding once and they separate to clean up and call it in. 

And after, Nightwing gives him a  _Look_ before he’s up on a nearby roof, and Tim knows what that means, even before he joins the elder up there.

He’s kind, when he sends Robin back home. And it really is for the best.

–

Dick wakes slowly the next morning, grumbling into his pillow and fumbling gracelessly for his alarm clock. “Mnoooo,” he mumbles, hiding his face against the light from the window. And then, groping across the bedsheets, “Timm _eeeeeeeeeee_ –”

“You’re a bit pathetic this morning,” Tim says, poking at the scrunched-up skin around Dick’s eyes. He takes pity and turns the alarm off, stifling a laugh when Dick flops back with a sigh. 

He rolls over, a little, and squints blearily up at where Tim’s standing beside the bed. And he says, “Tim?” and, blank, “You going to school today?”

“What tipped you off?” he says wryly. “The tie, right? Or the blazer with my school-crest?”

“Too early for your smart mouth,” Dick says flatly. Closing his eyes again. “Time izzit?”

“You’ve gotta wait about 20 minutes 'til it’s too early,” Tim explains. “I’m pretty sure it’s technically night, still.”

And Dick frowns up at him, looking so genuinely confused that Tim rolls his eyes and says, “Almost 7.”

He sits up, then, rubbing tiredly at the pillow-creases on his face, and tilts his head, considering. “Di'n’t school start much later when I was your age?”

“I’m not sure about the buses from here,” Tim says. “And I’m pretty sure 9 is more or less standard.”

Dick looks slightly upset when he says, “I’ll drive you.”

Tim just shrugs. “Gotta figure out the buses sooner or later.”

And Dick doesn’t seem to hear him, instead tugs him onto the bed and pulls him close, still warm from sleep. He kisses the side of Tim’s head firmly, says, “You’re okay, right? I wanted to talk to you last night but you were asleep when I got in.”

“Mhm,” Tim says, suffering the hug with good grace. “I just, kind of. Spaced out. It was dumb, I know.” And he returns the hug with one arm (his shoulder is digging uncomfortably into Dick’s chest, though he doesn’t seem to mind), lets Dick just hold him there for a while. And eventually, says, “Hey. Thanks, okay?”

“Yeah, Timbo,” is all Dick says, with a sad, sleepy smile.

And then Tim goes to school.

It’s noisy and distracting and his English teacher asks if he’s been okay, and if his attendance will be more consistent from now? and Tim tells her yes, even though it might be a lie. He finds himself excused from a Biology test (thank you, Alfred), which means he spends the period after lunch sitting alone in the library. He wonders, absently, how disappointed Dick will be, if he misses his last class of the day. So he goes.

He winds up back in Bludhaven a little past 4, exhausted in a surprisingly pleasant way. He has a stilted, awkward conversation with one of Dick’s neighbours (“oh, you’re here with Dick, are you? such a nice young man but always so busy–”) before he can get back up to Dick’s floor, dropping his backpack in the doorway with a sigh.

There’s a note from Dick, scribbled on the back of yesterday’s grocery receipt and stuck to the bench. It says,

_Hey Timmy_

_hope you had a great day at school._

_Won’t be home til after 7, do something fun and_ ~~_irrep_ ~~ _irresponsible until then!!_

Then there’s a scribble Tim thinks is probably supposed to be a heart, and an overly-extravagant “ _Dickie_ ” written in cursive.

Tim decides the note is probably sarcastic. He does the breakfast dishes, makes Dick’s bed, wipes down the bathroom counter (and honestly, how Dick can spread toothpaste from one side to the other is anyone’s guess), and settles down to study for his rescheduled Bio test.

He takes a break long enough to shower, and watches an episode of a sitcom that fills Dick’s DVR before he gets back to cell-structures, evolution, and trying to decode his own messy handwriting for a half a semester ago.

His phone startles him at a quarter to seven. Dick, of course, with 

**Hey Timmy, you got anything organised for dinner?**

And Tim’s already up and off the carpet, struggling to type  _and_ find his shoes in the same instant–

**Shit I forgot, I’m grabbing my shoes now.**

He’s almost to the elevator, prepared to sprint the whole way to the store, when Dick replies,

**Omg no i was just asking if i should pick up take-out STAY WHERE YOU ARE**

shortly followed by,

**Thai, pizza, or chinese?**

–

Dick asks him about school, of course. Questions about specific classes and everything, which Tim thinks he maybe answers with too much detail and chatter.

(That’s probably why no one but Alfred ever asks him.)

But Dick doesn’t seem to mind, though it can be hard to tell, with him. Regardless, he’s a great audience, laughing and making snarky comments at all the right places, gesturing enthusiastically with his chopsticks. And a couple times, Tim catches him smiling fondly when he thinks Tim’s not looking. Whatever that’s about. 

He tells Tim about his day, too, about a run-in with an aggressive sergeant, and some of the cleaner jokes going around the drunk-tank. About the obstinate traffic-violation he’d had to deal with (“fuck you, sir, there wasn’t no one on the sidewalk when I drove on it”), and the hilariously inappropriate uniform suggestions in the BPD’s new suggestion box.

Dick scoops out some ice-cream for dessert after that, and they eat it in front of the TV, Dick tragically lip-syncing to every infomercial they see. And then they catch the last 15 minutes of a Golden Girls episode, before Dick flips to the middle of an action movie.

Watching television with Dick, Tim has learned, is something of a skill.

It’s not until they’ve exhausted the fun of criticising the movie (and really, explosions  _don’t_ work that way, that kick couldn’t’ve stunned anyone, never mind a martial arts champion, and  _no one_ could fight in those clothes–) that Dick turns the volume down a little, says, “Timbo? You mind if we have a quick talk?”

“I–” Tim says, and his spoon, clattering against the porcelain bowl, startles him into nearly dropping it. 

_Is Dick about to kick him out?_

“Hey, relax, would you?” Dick says, trying to keep it light. And Tim can’t read anything past his smile. “It’s nothing bad, I promise. I just– wanted to double-check something.”

Tim relaxes a little, still wary. Dick squeezes his knee.

“Okay. I know I’m a messy person, and I have embraced that about myself. And if you like to keep things tidier, then that honestly doesn’t bother me, but–”

“I haven’t been snooping, I swear,” Tim blurts. 

“Shit, no, Tim,” Dick shakes his head, doesn’t remove his hand– if anything, he squeezes tighter. He says, “That’s not– I never thought you were. And there’s nothing I don’t trust you with, okay? Just–” He pauses. “I’m a little worried that you’re doing so much housework as a way of… earning your keep.” He says the last part carefully, eyes on Tim’s face. At Tim’s slight frown, he goes on, “I wanted to make sure you know that I love having you here. You’re my gorgeous baby brother, how could I  _not_  love spending time with you? And. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, and you will  _always_ be welcome, even if you spend all your time messing up my stuff, spending all my money, and making cop-jokes. You don’t have to earn the right to stay. You know that, right?”

Tim nods carefully, and Dick kisses his temple, mumbling something like 'good’. Turns his attention back to the TV.

“Anyway,” he says, absently now. “If there’s some stuff about my place being messy that really bothers you, I can work on it. Like how you’re twitching, looking over at the sink just now. I’m sure I can learn to do the dishes in a timely manner.” and he’s smiling crookedly at Tim, just this side of sly. 

He only laughs, when Tim elbows him.

–

After that, they get into a routine. 

Tim goes to school on weekdays (and he hasn’t missed a day, since he’s gone back, thank you), while Dick works his shifts on a rotating schedule, sometimes nights and sometimes weekends. They hang out, when they’re both home, and Dick “helps” Tim with his homework when he’s around (“Dick, I have to  _explain_ the Bay of Pigs, I can’t just call it  _the biggest government-sanctioned screw up since prohibition_ –”), and on weekends, Tim helps Dick catch up on any work he’s fallen behind on. 

It’s a good system.

They eat take-out a few nights a week, take turns with cooking and dishes, and Dick has finally learned not to run out the hot water when he showers first.

Robin’s only patrolled a few times, with Nightwing. Since the first time, they’re both a little on edge, but it’s getting easier. Mostly, though, Dick goes out by himself, while Tim sleeps. Or lies there, pretending to sleep, listening for the catch on the window and Dick’s prowling movements, the sound of the shower starting up. 

Nightwing has never needed a partner.

–

Dick’s late home, Thursday night.

He’d said they could patrol tonight, so Tim’s half-dressed on the sofa, Robin tights fisted in his grip. The rest of the suit is pooled beside him, domino and gauntlets sprawled over the coffee-table. The fabric of the couch prickles uncomfortably under Tim’s bare thighs. 

Tim's… having trouble concentrating. He’d felt a low-grade headache buzzing around the base of his skull around lunch-time, but it’d slowly gotten worse throughout the day. He’s sure the cool night air, the adrenaline spike, will help. 

Just as soon as he gets dressed.

He’s still contemplating shifting, the motion necessary to stand, balance, dress, when Dick’s door opens. He says “Hi Timmy,” from what sounds like far away, and goes straight into the kitchen, opening the fridge. “Good day?”

“I’ll be ready in just a sec,” Tim says, closing his eyes. He’s sure, with the tights, the rest of the costume’ll be much easier to put on. 

Dick speaks again (mouth full, probably left-overs), and Tim can’t quite make out the words, so he says nothing. 

He startles when Dick’s much closer to the couch, says “How come you’re so pale?” and there’s an immediate hand flat against his forehead.

“M'fine,” Tim says crossly, but the words jar his skull, and he tries to knock Dick’s hand away.

He’s frowning, when Tim opens his eyes. And he starts tilting Tim’s chin up carefully, manually, hands gentle on his jaw and creeping up his cheeks. Then, “Shit, kiddo. Why didn’t you say you had a migraine?” and, “God, your pupils are different sizes–”

And Tim says, “Okay, just lemme– get dressed–” the tights still in his hands, and Dick takes them, dropping them to the couch alongside the rest of the costume. 

“Tomorrow night, lil bro. Let’s get you upstairs, hmm?” and, manoeuvring hands under his arms, gentle and firm, lifting him off the couch and onto his feet. “How bad is it? Too late for painkillers?” murmured soft.

“I–” Tim says. And that’s all.

“Okay, it’s okay, buddy. Come on.”

And Tim’s suddenly dizzy and half-limp, feet on the stairs, and he says “Dick–”

“Relax, I got you,” Dick says, pressed behind him. He’s guiding Tim, supporting some of his weight, and Tim’s feeling out of balance and unsure.

(It’s probably for the best he doesn’t patrol tonight.)

“I’ve got you,” Dick says, again. And they’re almost at the top of the stairs already, Tim’s eyes screwed shut.

“Dick, I have to–”

“Detour, we can do that. Just hold it a sec–" 

And Dick gets him to the bathroom barely in time, so he can fall to his knees in front of the toilet and lose his cafeteria lunch.

Tim’s still heaving his guts out, acutely aware of the fact he’s wearing nothing but a pair of underwear and an Apple Jacks t-shirt, his knees aching against the cold bathroom tile. 

It’s bright in here, hot white lights, driving a spike just above his left eye.

He’s distantly aware of the sink running, Dick’s hand rubbing his back, and then a wet cloth pressed into his hands, a "Come on, hon, wipe your face– there’s a glass of tap water just here–” a hand, guiding his, to the rim of the glass by his thigh. “Drink some, if you can.”

And Tim follows the instructions sluggishly, carefully, half-expecting to hurl again. His stomach is still roiling when Dick returns, and the pain is  _worse_ now and Tim wants to curl up someplace dark and sleep, and never wake up again–

Dick guides his arms up, to help strip his shirt off, and  _oh_ , Tim threw up on it, a little. But quickly, without fuss, Dick has him dressed in a clean t-shirt, soft as butter,  **POLICE ACADEMY** blazoned on the front.

He smooths back Tim’s hair and kisses his temple (even though Tim’s pretty sure he smells like vomit), says, “You going to be sick some more?”

“Don’ think so,” Tim tells him, shaking a little.

Dick takes him at his word, says “Then I’d say it’s bedtime for you, little bird,” and helps him off the floor, flushing the toilet on their way out. 

He stands by as Tim carefully tucks himself into bed, grateful for the thick, dark curtains over Dick’s window.

His footsteps soft, near-silent, Dick leaves the room. He comes back with a bucket and a damp cloth. The first, he sets on the floor where Tim could, if he was so inclined, lean off the bed to throw up directly into it. The second he folds carefully and presses to Tim’s forehead.

“Don’t look so worried,” Tim tells him. “I’ll sleep it off, okay? Go patrol.”

At that, Dick looks more worried. “But Timmy–”

“I just need some quiet and a few solid hours sleep. M'okay.”

It takes a little more convincing, but eventually, Dick enters the bathroom, and Nightwing comes out. Tim’s eyes are closed, and he hears a murmured– "My poor Tim. You can’t keep going like this– you’ll have to talk to him eventually.“

And Tim– can’t even contemplate it, now, but he–

He presses a phone into Tim’s hand, still limp where he lays on the bed, and says, "My number re-routes to my .comm – please call me if you want me. I’ll be home as soon as I can, okay? I promise." 

"Stay safe,” Tim slurs, and his head  _hurts_ , even where it touches the pillow, like the pressure’s too much– but Nightwing is tucking him up carefully, in soft sheets that smell like Dick, and pressing a very gentle kiss to his forehead. In spite of the pain, Tim feels himself smiling, because how many people can say they’ve been tucked in by Nightwing? 

Nightwing– Dick– chuckles, and did Tim maybe say that last bit aloud?

“Sleep tight, handsome,” he murmurs, and stands again.

Then he leaves Tim to sleep.

–

It’s much later when Tim wakes in the dark. The migraine’s dulled now, almost gentle, pressed deep into his skull. And Dick isn’t here.

Unsure what time it is, he slips out of bed and into the bathroom, relieving himself and brushing his teeth, because his mouth tastes like things he doesn’t want to think about. He pads back out into the bedroom, noticing a water bottle and painkillers set up on the nightstand. Dick must have set them out before he left. He rummages around for his pyjama pants, tugging them on tiredly. 

Dick’s neon-green alarm clock says it’s close to 3am. Should he be back?

Head feeling oddly empty, Tim starts downstairs. He wonders if it’s too soon to worry. 

Halfway down the staircase, Tim hears Dick murmuring. So he’s safe, at least. But Tim freezes, wondering if he’s interrupting something. He is about to leave again, when he catches his name–

“–Tim’s such a good kid. Shit, I just–” he sounds frustrated, and Tim’s sure he’s running his hands through his hair. He must be on the phone. And the only person he’d be talking to– “He’s so loyal to you, Bruce. And he loves you  _so much_ … I wonder if you  _do_  know. I just don’t know why you keep screwing him over–” and then, “If you could see what this is doing to him, B.”

And there’s silence for a long minute. Dick sounds furious when he speaks again, says “Hey, I’d be more than happy to let him stay here 'til he  _graduates,_ but he doesn’t  _belong_ here… He isn’t happy." 

Tim stands on the stairs, still feeling lightheaded and vague, but barely daring to breathe. 

Exhausted, mournful, Dick says, "Yeah. I know. I’m not sure when. Just–” and, voice going tight, controlled, “You have no right to tell me that, Bruce.” And then he hangs up. Mid-sentence, Tim is almost sure. 

There’s a quiet sigh, the slightest scrape of a chair against the floor. And Tim decides now’s as good a time as any, so he scuffs a foot deliberately and continues down the stairs.

Dick’s slouched in a chair at the kitchen table, looking old beyond his years. His hair is mussed and sticking up, and he’s wearing a faded T-shirt of a band Tim hasn’t heard of, and a pair of boxers. His cell is face-down in front of him, head in his hands. But he looks up, when Tim comes into view, says, 

“Timmy?” and for a moment Tim feels sure Dick knows, exactly what he heard and how long he stood there, but all the man says is, “You okay? How’s your head?”

“Good I think,” Tim says, mostly truthfully. He doesn’t have to feign the sleepiness- he’s practically swaying on his feet. “It’s just a headache now. I got worried you weren’t back yet.”

“Sorry, Timmy,” he smiles wryly, palms the phone. “I showered in the guest bathroom when I got back. Didn’t want to wake you. You hungry?”

Tim shakes his head as Dick stands from the table, crossing to where he stands. He says, “Bed, then?” and Tim nods, letting Dick guide him back upstairs. 

“How was patrol?” he asks tiredly, and Dick smiles at him, says, 

“Lonely.”

He takes a painkiller back in Dick’s room, and falls back into bed. Dick is careful, behind him, trying not to jolt the bed out of consideration for his mostly-not-a-migraine. 

But he doesn’t sleep. Instead, he lays awake long after Dick’s started snoring lightly. After he’s curled, more or less automatically, around Tim. 

Tomorrow, he knows. He needs to talk to Bruce. 

 

-


	14. Chapter 14

**–**

“Are you sure you want to go to school today? I mean, you had a migraine yesterday. God, when I was your age I’d try to get a day off school after a loud  _sneeze_. Not that it ever worked, with Alfred around–”

“I’ve missed enough school lately,” Tim says, fiddling with his school tie. “I’m okay.”

Dick just sighs and smooths down Tim’s cowlick.

“Don’t bother,” Tim tells him. “It won’t stay flat.”

“Well, I think you look very handsome,” Dick says, and his smile looks genuine. Plus there’s that little twinkle in his eyes that he gets sometimes, when he looks at Tim. But it mostly makes Tim embarrassed, so he ignores it like always. “I’ll be ready to go in a bit, okay?”

“You don’t have to drive me,” Tim says, again. “I can get the bus–”

“Okay, first? My car is not  _that bad_ , and do not make the face. Second, I am totally going to drive you no matter what you say, so why even argue?”

There is silence for a moment.

“I can never quite decide if you’re a good older brother or a terrible one,” Tim says, eventually.

“But Timbo,” his grin is sharp. “Don’t you know? The mark of a good older brother is being a terrible older brother!”

Tim just frowns, and Dick laughs it off, musses his  _just tidied hair_ , and sits down on the end of his bed to put on his shoes.

“I think I’m gonna talk to Bruce this afternoon,” Tim says eventually, trying for casual and only succeeding partway.

“It doesn’t have to be today, Tim,” Dick says, automatic. He looks concerned, already on alert.

Tim shrugs. “No point putting it off. Besides, I can’t keep making do with two sets of clothes and whatever I can borrow from you. I need to pick up some stuff, anyway.”

“Whatever you want, Timmy,” the elder tells him, eyes fond and sad. He says, “I’ll drive you, okay? I’ll come get you after school, and we can go together. Moral support, plus, I think we can totally take him in a fight if we tag-team.”

“You really don’t have to–”

“I’m finishing up early at work anyway,” Dick says. “I’ll be there.”

And that’s the last they say on the topic, right up until Dick drops Tim off at school.

He gives Tim a wet, smacking kiss on the cheek that is only about 35% sarcastic, and asks if he remembered to pack his lunch. Then Tim reminds him they don’t have food at home, but yes, he has plenty of money for the cafeteria, and Dick looks a little forlorn as he drives away.

–

Tim’s called to the office just after lunch, which definitely doesn’t help the rolling in his gut. And he’s pretty sure he left his phone in Dick’s car, so he can’t even call home to check in. He sits on the scratchy, plastic-legged chairs in the waiting room while the receptionist– the mean one today, lipstick outside of the lines– talks on the phone. Then she hangs up, and looks at him.

“Timothy Drake?”

He stands. “Yes?”

She consults a post-it. She says, nose wrinkling. “Your. Ahem, your  _dick_ called–”

“My brother,” Tim explains, a little awkwardly. “He um, doesn’t go by Richard.”

“Right. Your Dick called and said–” she consults the post-it again. “He said he has to stay back at work, and he can’t take you to your appointment tonight. You can reschedule.”

“Thank you,” Tim says, and “That’s all, then?”

“You can return to class,” she says, flapping a hand at him.

And Tim goes.

–

It’s after school and Tim’s decided.

He’s going to go to the Manor, he knows. His feet drag a little more with each step outside the school gates, but he’s going back there tonight. For better or for worse. (But hey, he’ll be able to stop washing his school-shirt in Dick’s sink after school, which he supposes passes for a bonus.)

And if he’s honest, he’s a little bit hoping that Bruce might still be at work. That Tim can slip in, catch up with Alfred, and slip back out before the man returns. The thought spurs him a little faster on the path. It’s not really  _avoidance_ , just that, well, if Tim happens to stop by when Bruce isn’t home, it’s just bad timing. That’s all.

He keys in his passcode to unlock the front gate, and starts on up the drive. The Manor looks imposing and empty, as always. Silhouetted and looming.

Tim shields his eyes against the glaring sky, and continues up the path.

There’s no one in the entryway, when he fiddles with his key. When he dusts his school-shoes on the mat, or when he shuts the door behind him with an all-too-final  _thud._  But there’s rarely someone in this part of the house.

So he heads toward the stairs (a little quicker than he’s proud of), jumps a  _mile_ when he hears,

“Master Richard?”

and spins on his heel so quick, the weight of his swinging school bag almost sends him toppling. He says “Alfred?” who says,

“Timothy?”

and then they hug. It’s a little stiff and awkward, on Tim’s part. At least for the first few seconds. But then he exhales and relaxes into it, squeezing Alfred tighter.

“You were expecting Dick?” he says, when he pulls back.

“Not exactly,” Alfred says, after a moment. “It’s more,” and he pauses.

“That you weren’t expecting me?”

“Something like that,” the man says, smiling fondly down at him. “But you know what they say about making assumptions.”

And Tim thinks of playing this off, about what Dick would say (‘they make an ass out of ump and tion?’), to make this more normal. Instead, “I miss you, Alfred,” he says, quick, quiet.

“Master Richard’s cooking does leave a bit to be desired,” he agrees.

“That’s not the only reason,” Tim says, mouth twisting with a swallowed laugh. And then, because he can’t go much longer, “Is he here, Alfred?”

“He’s still at the office,” Alfred tells him. Brow heavy. “I’m not sure when he’ll return, Master Tim. Did you want to wait around, or–?”

“I needed to pick some things up,” he says, a bit too quickly. “I– I’m not avoiding him. I just figured, if he was here, then…”

And Alfred just nods, because he follows every thought, trailed off or not.

Tim says, “I have to leave Dick a message, though. He– that is, we, were going to hang out after he was done at work, but he has to stay late, and I left my phone in Blüdhaven or in his car maybe, so I should um, tell him I’ve stopped by here. If I beat him back home, though, I can delete it from the machine I guess.” And then, a half-little grin, “He keeps the codes on a post-it, but I knew them before that anyway…”

And Tim knows he has a habit of chattering, over-explaining especially, but Alfred is looking at him as though for the first time, sadness written over his face. Then the expression clears, and he says “Well sir, if you wanted to head up to your bedroom, I’ll bring up a snack shortly.”

“Oh that’s okay–”

“You’re a growing boy,” Alfred steamrolls him, but kindly, and nudges him towards the stairs.

Alfred’s good to his word, and comes up with a tray while Tim’s wrapping up his message to Dick. (“Hi, it’s me. Tim. Um, Drake. If you beat me home, everything’s fine, I stopped by the Manor to pick up some stuff. I’ll see you tonight, I hope work was okay. Um. Yeah. Bye.”) There’s juice and celery with cream cheese and a small bowl of fruit salad and cookies with chocolate chips. Tim just raises his eyebrows and says, setting the phone back down, “…All out, huh Alfred?”

“I missed you too, sir,” is all the man says, eyes warm. And then, “And if I’m quite honest, I don’t know that I trust Master Dick to make nutritional choices for the two of you.”

“Pizza’s a food group,” Tim says absently, and Alfred just laughs, and leaves him to it.

He should’ve brought a list. Then he wouldn’t be standing in the middle of his bedroom, metaphorically scratching his head. What has he had to borrow from Dick, the last few weeks? A clean pair of pyjamas, a spare pair of sweats. His own pillow would be nice, but he’s realistic about bringing it back to Blüdhaven by bus. And at this point, he’s probably just as used to the one at Dick’s. And–

History notes! Right. He heads over to the desk and starts digging through, wishing he hadn’t stopped colour-coding notes for different subjects. Chemistry, an English paper from last semester, more Chemistry, some Bio, a lot of different kinds of Math. History of… Spain. Nope.

And there’s a knock at the door, Tim answering,

“Come on in, Alfred,” without really thinking.

But there’s a throat clear. And.

“Um,” Bruce says, from the doorway. “If I’m not Alfred…?”

“It’s your house,” Tim says, turning around, and it sounds stupidly, impossibly teenaged and snappish. He tries to soften if with a shrug, and finds himself wishing, irrationally, that he’d at least had a chance to tidy his hair, or straighten his tie. He feels woefully unprepared for whatever Bruce is going to say.

“Can we… talk?”

Tim wonders what would happen if he said  _no_. Or  _not just now, Bruce. Thanks, though_. But he’s not in the habit of refusing Batman, and what would it accomplish, anyway?

So he gives another half-shrug, and Bruce takes that as permission to cross the threshold into his room. Tim gestures vaguely to the bed, and Bruce sits.

There’s a slightly uncomfortable pause, where Tim doesn’t move from beside the desk and Bruce just waits. Then, he gives Tim a  _look_ that he almost definitely learned from Alfred. And Tim sighs, crossing the room. He sits, too, but leaves a good few feet of space between them. He stares down at the covers of his immaculately made bed.

“I–” Bruce starts. Clears his throat. “How– how are you? How have you been?”

“Fine,” Tim says.

“And school–?”

“I’m still going,” he snaps.

“I know, I just meant, how’s school.” Bruce is halfway to Brucie, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, top button popped. He’s hasn’t taken off his shoes or watch. And his large hands are overly still, clasped together in his lap. His hair is faintly mussed.

“It’s fine,” Tim says, “Good. It's–” and he rakes a hand through his hair, looks up at Bruce crookedly. “Do we have to do this?”

And Bruce’s shoulders drop, his mouth curling down. He says, “I guess not.”

The silence is heavy between them.

Until “How’s Dick?” –and Bruce closes his eyes. He hadn’t meant to speak. He’s nervous, then. Uncharacteristically so.

But Tim just says, “He’s good. He’s very agreeable to live with, you know. He. Yeah. He’s good. Overworked like always, but. He keeps smiling. Joking around and stuff.”

And Bruce gives Tim a grateful little glance, something sad and…  _not_  in his eyes, that Tim doesn’t think he’s ready to address. There is a long moment.

And then he clears his throat, meeting Tim’s eyes across the space between them.

He says, “I’m sorry, Tim. For deceiving you, and for letting you find out the way you did.”

Tim says nothing, gives a tiny nod. He’s uncomfortable under Bruce’s intense, blue stare.

“It was a… miscalculation,” the man continues, and he cringes, very faintly. Possibly hearing how weak it sounds, even to him. “I… was wrong– very wrong– to treat you how I did. But I’m hoping you’ll allow me to explain myself, before you… react.”

Tim does the tiny nod again. His palms prickle with sudden sweat, but he doesn’t move to dry them.

Bruce, too, has dropped his gaze, to study the expanse of bedcovers between them rather than look Tim in the eye. Neither of them are much good at this.

But Tim understands Bruce well enough to know he needs time to gather his thoughts, so the silence, for all that it’s uncomfortable…  _isn’t_.

Eventually, it cracks under the weight of Bruce’s deep voice. Slow, hesitant. “You’ve been acting… differently, since your father died. More cold, more angry.”

Tim goes to speak, to protest, but Bruce cuts him off, “Which is understandable, and natural. But.” He stops again, rests a hand over his eyes. Tries, “You're…  _different_ , from the other boys. From Dick, and Jason– you. You  _sought this out_ , your parents were alive. You weren’t doing this out of anger, for vengeance. You weren’t even doing it for fun.” He stops, briefly. Gathering his thoughts, lips pressed in a tight line.

“And you've… never had that complete  _faith_ in me, like them. You never saw me as infallible. Or my moral code. Dick and Jason saw things in black and white, and you–  _you_ see every shade of grey.” He stops, dropping his hands to his lap.

He says, “You could have– chosen to follow  _anyone_.”

And Tim could laugh, really, if the lump wasn’t so large in his throat. He says, “You don’t get it. You never have.” And, “Of  _course_  it would be you. It was  _always_ going to be you! You’re. You’re  _Batman_ , who never gives up, who helps  _everyone,_  the one who cares–” Tim swallows, chokes on the words, “even for people who didn't– who don’t deserve it.” And his hand clenches on the bed between them, full of what he doesn’t say.

But it looks as though Bruce hears, anyway.

Tim squeezes his eyes closed, and says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the Robin–”  _son_ “you wanted.”

And Bruce looks. Well, bewildered. Realisation dawning slowly, he says, “That’s what you think? That I don’t want you to be Robin any more? Tim–  _Tim_ , that’s not–”

“You,” Tim says, white-knuckled. Dizzy. “You said. You hadn’t meant for me to find out that way.”

“That he was  _alive_ , Tim,” Bruce says helplessly. And he goes to speak, but Tim–

“It was another stupid test.” Flat. Resigned, almost. And he feels so  _idiotic_ for not seeing it before, after all of it, Bruce still being an asshole, still refusing to trust him, still making him look  _stupid–_

“I knew I’d made a mistake that night in the study, when you came to me for comfort,” the man continues, dogged. “I couldn’t bring myself to face you. I didn’t know how to explain my actions, without making everything worse.” And, “I’d planned to tell you, Tim. Right after patrol that night. But then you saw him, and it was too late.”

Tim says, “After  _everything_ –”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” He drops his head again, says, “I can’t seem to stop messing things up between us.” He glances sidelong at Tim, who is still staring silently ahead, adds ruefully “Alfred’s barely spoken to me, since he found out what I’d done.”

At that, Tim’s lip half-twitches, into something that isn’t a smile. Because Alfred has always known how to make his feelings clear.

And, “I know that you need space, Tim.” He reaches across the bed, says, “But please understand how sorry I am.”

Tim flinches violently, automatically scooching closer to his pillow. Away from Bruce’s outstretched hand. He can’t make eye contact with the man, says hoarsely, “Can you just. Not. Please.”

Bruce withdraws, face going blank. And it’s effortful, but the mask does fall away again, leaving Bruce looking old and sad and tired. Honest. Hand dropping back into his lap, he says, “We’re still– I still  _want_ us to be partners. If you think you can get past this.”

“I–” Tim says. “Not yet. I, I’m not.”

“Of course,” Bruce says, hurriedly. “I know you’re going to go back to Blüdhaven, and I wasn’t expecting you to stay. I just meant, I’ll be waiting. For when you are ready.”

Tim nods slowly.

“You’re still my Robin.”

And  _there._  A tiny flare of warmth in Tim’s chest. He glances, quick, at Bruce. Then back at the floor. He swallows, says, “Yeah.” and something in the set of Bruce’s shoulders deflates like relief.

And like that, Tim’s picking his bag up off the floor, bundling up his elusive history notes, still strewn on the desk, and his spare school clothes and pyjamas. Another jacket, too, because Dick’s hangs too low on him, the sleeves eclipsing his hands almost completely. And that’s all.

It doesn’t feel like a lot.

Bruce says, “You’ve got everything?”

Tim pauses. “Think so,” he says.

“Alfred or I can drive you back to Blüdhaven,” Bruce starts to offer, and Tim shakes his head. Says,

“Thanks, but there’s a bus soon. The stop’s not far.”

He doesn’t have to say that he needs time alone, to process. Because Bruce probably understands that impulse better than anyone else he knows. And the man just nods, like that’s what he expected.

And Tim– isn’t good at this, but he takes two quick steps to the bed. Before he can change his mind, he brushes his fingertips over the back of Bruce’s hand, says, “See you, B.”

Bruce smiles up at him, an honest-to-God smile, because things  _are_ going to be okay between them, even if it takes a while. Even if they aren’t there yet. And he says, “Give Dick my regards.”

“I will.” (Tim will probably tell him 'Bruce sends his love’, just for the way his face will light up, and then he’ll laugh and ask what he  _really_ said.)

He turns away from Bruce and starts for the door. A quick goodbye to Alfred and he can make the next bus to Blüd…

And Bruce says, low, “Take as much time as you need, Tim.”

“Yeah,” he says, fiddling with the strap of his school bag. And, “Yeah.” again.

He leaves Bruce sitting on the end of his bed. And he goes home.

–

It’s dark when he gets back, and the apartment is quiet. Dick’s keys and wallet are on the counter, and the answering machine says there are no new messages.

Tim refrigerates the Alfred-food, a few comically-large containers of fresh-prepared meals, and kicks his shoes off by the door. He drops his overfull schoolbag on the couch, loosening his tie and climbing the stairs to Dick’s bedroom.

He’d waited up.

Dick’s half-dressed on the bed, mostly sideways. He’s down to an undershirt and pants, thrown blue in the light of a DVD menu that’s playing music on a loop. He was killing time until Tim got home, but he’d fallen asleep midway. His mouth is open and he’s snoring a little.

Tim quietly sheds a few layers, swaps out his school uniform for a pair of sweats. Turns off the player and the TV, throwing the room into darkness. He crawls carefully atop Dick’s bed, dragging his pillow to the centre. Dick smells faintly of sweat, of the beer that’s ¾ of the way to empty on the nightstand.

He closes his eyes. Holding his breath, he eases under Dick’s arm, and prays the movement won’t wake him.

But then, Tim has never been good at asking for the things he wants.

**END.**

**-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post the epilogue tomorrow.   
> Thanks for reading!


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set an indeterminate amount of time after the main events of the story.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed and thoroughly appreciated.

–

The Emergency Room is very quiet for a Thursday night in Blüdhaven. 

It’s headed toward 2am, but hospital waiting rooms, Tim thinks, are always a lot like casinos. No clocks, no windows. It could be any time outside, and it wouldn’t matter here.

The steady, filtered light from the overhead strip-lights is bright and faintly uncomfortable. The glare is making Tim’s eyes water.

The whole place smells like bleach and mothballs. There are 4-year-old magazines on every other plastic chair; the only person in the waiting room aside from Tim is an old man in the corner, who’s dozing comfortably. Tim wonders why he’s here– if he’s actually waiting on someone, or if he just wants a safe place to sleep.

The admissions nurse at the desk is toying with her cellphone, every inch of her oozing indifference. Tim’s seen her reapply her bubblegum-pink lipgloss twice so far, carefully, painstakingly. Bringing out a little hand-held mirror each time.

And Tim sits, stooped stiffly in his chair. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t move. 

Tim is waiting.

—

When the automated doors open, Tim almost doesn’t move. But he catches the ghost of a scent, familiar, woody aftershave, and,

“Tim–”

He doesn’t even remember getting up, just that he’s halfway across the linoleum floor before he can blink. Like magnets, he thinks, when Bruce’s hand lands, heavy on his shoulder.

The man’s mouth is drawn down and he says, “Tim,” again, like he’s tasting the word. 

“They–” Tim says, and his voice cracks. He licks his lips and tries again, says “They didn’t. They won’t tell me anything, Bruce.”

“Go and sit down, Tim,” Bruce says quietly, but there’s no give in it. It’s an order. Softened by the brush of a finger just above the collar of his t-shirt. “I’ll join you in a minute, I’m going to see what I can find out.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tim says, like it was a question. Walks with heavy steps back to his chair, while Bruce goes to talk to the admissions nurse. 

It’s less than a minute for her to page another nurse downstairs, who Bruce starts to interrogate. She sends for a third hospital employee, who comes down too. Answering his questions. 

Tim wonders if it’s because he’s Bruce Wayne, or if it’s because he’s an adult that he gets his answers so easily. Or maybe it’s that he’s Dick’s emergency contact. 

Either way, no one would tell Tim anything.

And after a few minutes, Bruce walks over. He’s in slacks and a button-up shirt, with his camel coat over the top. He’s wearing pointed shoes that click- _clack_  with every step.

“He’s still in surgery and is apparently going strong,” Bruce says, when he reaches Tim. Briefly shadowing him from the fluorescent lights. He hesitates, then, taking the seat beside Tim’s. “We’ll be notified when something changes.”

Tim nods, feeling ill. 

And Bruce drops his large, warm hand to Tim’s knee. Leaning in. “Tell me what happened?”

“We,” Tim says, slow. “We were going out for a late snack. I couldn’t sleep.”  _Patrol_. “We were wandering around, looking for someplace that was open,”  _a drug drop, actually_ , “and we wound up in this alleyway, and these guys jumped us.”  _True enough, except that_ they  _did the jumping._  “And Dick– he gave them all the money he had, but this one guy must’ve panicked, and he had a knife, and he– Dick– I had to find help.” Here Tim stops. His distress, unlike the story, is not faked. And Bruce, he knows, can read between the lines. It’s pretty obvious it was a patrol gone wrong.

And Tim at least had the sense to dress them in civilian clothes before he’d called an ambulance. 

He closes his eyes briefly, reliving the feeling of holding Dick on his feet, slick with blood, trying to peel off the costume and still keep pressure on the wound in Dick’s side. 

Their costumes – both bloodied, Nightwing’s definitely ruined, Robin’s only slightly less so – are jammed in a duffel under the floorboards of a safe house. They’ll have to collect them in the next day or two. A pleasant job for Alfred. And Bruce, Tim knows, is going to make him go over every detail of his fabricated story, until it’s perfect. 

Bruce’s hand, still heavy on his leg, squeezes once. Drawing him back to the present. 

And Tim. Feels like he’s been waiting in this room forever. It feels so different, so surreal, with someone sitting beside him. Bruce is warm and large and doesn’t smell at all like bleach. If Tim concentrates, really concentrates, he can hear the faint sounds of the man’s breathing. 

And Tim says, choked, “They. They’re going to tell us, right? If he’s–”  _Okay. Dead_. Tim doesn’t know. He cuts himself off, fixing his eyes on the floor.

Bruce says, “If we haven’t heard anything in the next 15 minutes, I’ll check with the nurse again.” and shifts his hand, his grip, to Tim’s arm. Squeezes gently, reassuring. 

And Tim jerks his arm away, pained. Hissing through his teeth. 

Bruce… frowns at him. Then, moving slowly, he takes Tim by the wrist, carefully prodding up and down his forearm. Until Tim flinches again.

“Tim–”

“It’s fine,” he says.

“–you might have a fracture. Do you remember an impact?”

“I didn’t hear a crack,” Tim says, and his voice comes out wooden, mechanical. And that really isn’t the question Bruce was asking.

“Turn your arm–” and even with Bruce  _guiding_ him, Tim can’t turn his hand palm-up. There’s white-hot pain, but–

 _Dick_ –

And Bruce stands from his chair, the soles of his shoes loud and echoey on the floor, and he waits for Tim to do the same. He gently peels Tim’s arm out of his jacket sleeve, examining the skin there with a frown. Then, “We’ll get you checked out. Come on.” and Tim trails in Bruce’s wake, still feeling shivery and ill.

At the admissions desk, Tim’s more than happy to let Bruce to the talking. He hears, “Possible injury” and “x-ray” and “proper emergency care”. And Bruce fills in a form right there at the desk, with his name and age and nature of complaint, checking boxes for allergies and medical history. 

Tim just stands at his side, injured arm pressed against his chest. Blankly. He’s glad Bruce doesn’t ask him any questions.

It’s barely a minute before a doctor in brightly coloured scrubs appears, greeting them and gesturing them towards an examination room. Bruce Wayne’s name has pull, even outside of Gotham.

And Bruce puts a hand on the small of Tim’s back, steering him down into the corridor. Following the doctor.

“Take a seat, please, Mr– ah, Drake-Wayne,” the doctor tells him. “Let’s see what we can do here.”

And Tim doesn’t sit quite yet; Bruce hovers in the doorway, says, “Did you need me to stay, or–?”

“No,” Tim says, so quickly he stumbles over the word. “It’s fine, go and wait out there, in case. For Dick.”

Bruce meets his gaze, eyes serious and weary and sadder than Tim remembers. He says, “As soon as I hear anything, Tim, I’ll let you know.”

“Yeah,” he says, quiet. “Thanks, B.” 

And the room seems so much bigger when Bruce’s bulk isn’t blocking half a wall. With him gone, Tim obediently sits on the cot, mechanically answering the doctor’s questions– “So how’d you get hurt?” and “Tell me when it hurts?” and “Well that’s a hell of a scar, what happened here?” –but in reality, he’s only half-there.

He has to go upstairs for an x-ray, and then there’s the offer of painkillers (refused), and a light cast for the fracture. They even give him ice for the blossoming bruise on his jaw. 

The whole thing takes a little over three quarters of an hour, and by the end Tim’s fidgeting with drying plaster on his arm. Surely. Bruce would have told him, if something. If anything had changed. 

“Okay, Tim,” the doctor tells him, eventually (“Please, doctor, x-raying someone definitely puts you on a first name basis”). “I know you’re a big, tough teenager with something to prove. But I’m still going to write you a prescription for a light painkiller, just in case you need it over the next few days. One every four hours.” 

He shoves the prescription in his jeans pocket, nodding absently while she explains to him the function and usage of a sling, how to care for his cast, and what activities to avoid to help the healing process. Like he hasn’t broken a bone before.

“Thanks,” Tim mumbles, hopping off the cot.

And she says, “Hey, best of luck to your brother, okay?”

Tim nods, feeling unwell. His stomach is roiling with anxiousness, and he feels shaky from the pain of his arm. He opens the exam room door, takes two steps into the corridor, and almost runs head-first into Bruce.

“I was just coming to collect you,” the man rumbles, touching a hand to his shoulder.

“How’s Dick?” Tim blurts, while they start back to the waiting room.

“He’s– resting. Still knocked out. I’ve been told the surgery went well, and that they don’t foresee any complications. He’s in the ICU now, but they’ll move him once the anaesthetic has worn off.”

Tim’s heart skips a beat; “So Dick–” he says. Blankly.

“He’s going to be okay,” Bruce confirms, squeezing his shoulder gently. The corners of his mouth turn up a millimetre, but he still looks old and exhausted.

“Can we,” Tim tries. Lightheaded with relief. He swallows, licks his lips. “Are they going to let us see him?”

Bruce says, “I’ll find out.” And then, stopping in the corridor, Bruce takes Tim’s fresh cast between his hands with exceeding gentleness, stooping over to examine it. And then, quietly, “You okay?”

“I’m good, Bruce,” Tim says. “It’s only a fracture.”

Bruce searches his face then, his own expression unreadable. Then, apparently satisfied, he releases Tim’s cast from his grasp and says, “Okay.” And like that, they’re headed back toward the waiting room.

Tim’s feet trip over themselves, clumsy in Dick’s borrowed sneakers, and he follows behind Bruce.

( _He’s okay._ )

And Tim. Stumbles again, realising Bruce has stopped. Waiting for him to close the few steps distance.

( _He’s going to be okay.)_

“What,” Tim starts, but the word dies in his throat. Because Bruce rests his large hand on Tim’s shoulder, squeezing gently, and oh. He’s warm, and Tim’s so cold. Bruce watches his face carefully for a minute, as if gauging a reaction. And then he starts to walk again, keeping Tim at his side. Close. 

Tim wonders if he imagines warmth spreading from his shoulder, trickling down his back and arm. The whole way back to the admissions desk.

And they wait while the nurse phones the ICU. Something about “Yeah,  _Wayne_ ,” and then “the mugging victim–“ to Bruce, “–what’s his name? Yeah, Richard Grayson.” She presses the phone to her neck, says doubtfully, “You know he’s still out from the anaesthetic, right? And visiting hours are long over.”

“We just want to see him,” Bruce says, simple. 

It takes another few moments of negotiation, but eventually the admissions nurse waves them up, says, “Fourth floor. Tish at the desk will take you to his room.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says, and Tim echoes the sentiment.

They are silent in the elevator, and to the nurse’s station. The scuff of Tim’s too-big sneakers beside the click of Bruce’s loafers. 

And at this point, Tim’s anticipating another delay. So he’s surprised, when they arrive, to be waved straight through to Dick’s room.

Tim’s first thought is that they’ve been shown to the wrong room. 

Dick’s skin looks pale grey. His hair is greasy and loose and untidy on the pillow. A light blanket’s been drawn up to his waist, and he’s wearing a generic pale-blue hospital gown. He’s so still, but his chest is rising and falling steadily, and the monitor in the corner is counting the beats of his heart, the steady  _beep-bip_  from second to second. 

There’s a morphine drip and a blood transfusion going in at the inside of his elbow and the back of his hand. He’s wearing an oxygen mask.

 _At least he’s not in pain_ , Tim thinks. Becomes distantly aware of the nurse talking to Bruce, but he doesn’t hear what she says.

Then she withdraws. Leaving them alone with Dick.

It takes a moment for Tim to register Bruce’s hand, still on his shoulder, easing him closer to the bed. It’s only then Tim realises that he hasn’t moved closer, is standing in the doorway. And Bruce’s bulk is warm at his back. Waiting.

Tim shakes himself, takes a few shuffling steps forward. Until he’s close enough to touch Dick. His hand hovers, unsure. Eventually he presses against Dick’s arm, feather-light. Trails his fingers down to squeeze Dick’s hand. Tangles their fingers together, though his hand is shaking. 

There’s a long silence.

Bruce has crossed to the other side of the bed, looking down at Dick. But Tim can’t see his expression, just focusses on Dick’s warm hand and the faint movement behind his eyelids. His lips moving very slightly, beneath the oxygen mask. There’s a fleck of dried blood on his jaw.

And Tim says, “We,” and swallows. Licks his lips and tries again, his voice a hoarse whisper, “We’re going to see you tomorrow, okay Dick? First thing. You. You just rest,” and nothing changes, but Dick’s breathing is steady and that’s the most Tim could have hoped for. He closes his eyes, then, squeezing Dick’s hand again. Head low.

He stands there for minutes, just like that. Realises that Bruce hasn’t spoken. His clumsy fingers fumble, when he disentangles them from Dick’s, and the tread of Dick’s shoes catches on the tiled floor, nearly tripping him as he takes a step backward.

Bruce says, “I’ll be right out, Tim,” and Tim nods, without looking up. Bruce likes to keep family stuff pretty private. He takes a last close look at Dick’s sleep-slack face before he goes to wait in the hallway.

Tim’s so tired. 

He stands just outside the open door, and can see from here that Bruce is leaning over the bed, lips moving in a quiet murmur. His eyes are shadowed, and his hand is patting Dick’s hair gently, affectionately. Then the man stoops down further, presses a kiss to Dick’s face and straightens, and Tim quickly looks the other way, feeling inexplicably as though he has been caught eavesdropping.

After a moment, Bruce joins him at the door. Hand resting on the doorknob, he says quietly, “Are you ready to go, Tim?”

Tim nods, but he doesn’t feel ready after Bruce closes the door behind him with a soft  _click_. “We’ll,” Tim starts, a question, and Bruce nods, says, 

“First thing. The second we’re allowed in, we’ll be here.”

“Okay,” Tim agrees. It feels weird, to leave Dick here. Alone. And he trails behind Bruce again, while Bruce confirms visiting hours with the woman who’d shown them to Dick’s room and thanks her for her time. 

At the elevator, Bruce looks surprised to find Tim not with him, but he doesn’t say anything while Tim catches up. He holds the door. 

“You look wiped,” Bruce says quietly, as the doors close.

Tim just hums. He’s so exhausted he’s faintly concerned he’ll fall, still shaky and unsteady, limbs leaden, eyelids dragging. No doubt his body’s done producing adrenaline for the night.

“The car is just downstairs,” Bruce tells him, and Tim nods.

The elevator doors open back out onto the ground level, and Bruce sticks a little closer to Tim this time. Uncharacteristic, but Tim’s not complaining.

He leads the way out the automatic doors and across the pavement to the hospital parking lot. There’s one of Brucie’s playthings, a ludicrously expensive sports-car with a powerful engine and minimal leg room, in cherry red. And Tim absently wonders where Bruce was tonight, when he got the call that his son had been stabbed. Was he playing Batman, or Bruce Wayne? 

Tim’s slumped boneless in the passenger side, and Bruce goes around to the driver door. The car bounces beneath Bruce’s weight and the door closes; there’s the sound of some shifting for a minute, the interior lights bright on the backs of Tim’s eyelids. But he doesn’t open his eyes.

“Are you in much pain?” Bruce says, in the silence.

And…  _oh_. “Oh,” Tim murmurs. “My arm. No, I’m okay. She gave me painkillers for if I want them later.” He pats vaguely at his pocket with his good arm.

Bruce  _hmms_  but it’s one of his approving ones, Tim thinks. 

And it’s a minute or more before Tim realises that Bruce is leaning over the gearshift to dig for something in the glove compartment in front of Tim. It takes another minute to rouse himself enough to say, “Do you need–?”

“I’ve got it, Tim,” Bruce says quietly, closing it with a  _click_. Leaning back to the driver’s side. There’s the rustle of plastic that has Tim opening his eyes, half-sitting up. It’s a packet of disposable alcohol wipes, the plastic ones with a little hole in the top. “Hold on,” Bruce tells him, and, slowly enough Tim could pull away if he wanted, presses one to Tim’s cheek. It’s cold and damp and smells a lot like the interior of the hospital. “You’ve got a little,” Bruce says, but doesn’t say  _blood_. 

“I tried to get cleaned up in the bathroom,” Tim says, apologetically, helplessly. Resisting the urge to lean away. “But…” And then, “I can do it–”

“I know,” Bruce says. “It’s okay,” and he’s got two fingers on Tim’s cheek, occasionally shifting his head, while he gently scrubs flecks of Dick’s blood from Tim’s skin. 

And Tim. Closes his eyes again. Unsure if he feels like a stupid kid or a well-looked-after one. Maybe both.

“Nasty bruise,” Bruce comments, after a minute, and Tim hums again. Tilting his head to follow Bruce’s wordless instructions. And then, hesitant, “I. Can drive you back to Dick’s apartment, if that’s what you want. But I don’t like the idea of you being there alone, after this. So, if. If it’s okay–”

Tim opens his eyes. Bruce is frowning seriously, concentratedly, while he wipes the shell of Tim’s ear. It tickles. “It’s fine, Bruce,” he says. “We can go to the Manor.”

Bruce nods, looking almost. Grateful. 

And Tim reaches up with his good arm, stilling Bruce. Says, “That’s. It’s fine, I’ll do the rest later.”

Bruce  _hmms_ again, then puts the bloodied wipe in a small zip-lock bag. He cleans off his hands with a second wipe, and puts it with the first, seals the bag. How anyone falls for the Brucie act, Tim will never know.

The car starts with a rumble of the engine, and Bruce flicks off the interior lights. Ups the heater a few degrees and flicks the radio on low.

And Tim lays back in the seat again, eyes drifting closed. Feels the wheels on the asphalt, and focusses on the feeling of holding Dick’s warm hand, instead of the dried blood in his hair and on his clothes. 

“Keep it elevated, Tim,” Bruce tells him, and Tim wordlessly shifts, cupping his elbow in his own hand. Hitching his injured arm closer to his chest. 

“… Should you call Alfred?” Tim mumbles, after a few minutes. “Does he know?”

“I’ll call him in a minute,” Bruce says. “Let him know we’re on our way back.”

“ ‘kay,” Tim says, and Bruce’s hand settles to rest on his knee, huge and warm and gentle. 

“I’ll wake you when we get home, Tim.” 

 _Home._ Hm.

Bruce’s hand squeezes. “Yeah, Tim,” he says. “Home.” 

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/10395534094/just-like-you-part-1)


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